To Protect and Serve
by janemac24
Summary: Regina Mills is a decorated detective in the Boston Police Department, known for being outstanding at her job but outstandingly difficult to work with. Emma Swan is a driven rookie assigned to be her new partner. What happens when they find themselves thinking of each other as more than just coworkers? SWANQUEEN AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**: Hello, thank you for clicking my story. This was written in response to a prompt for a "Swan-Mills detective story" and is influenced in part by the vibe and dynamics on _SVU, _and _Rizzoli & Isles_ before that show started to suck. I hope you enjoy reading. This story comes with several disclaimers and warnings, which are detailed below.

1. First and foremost, I obviously don't own _Once Upon a Time_ or its characters. Nor do I own any of the crime shows this story draws inspiration from. I make no profit from this story, and I don't wish to be sued.

2. I am not involved with law enforcement and have no knowledge of police work, forensics, etc. beyond what is available on Wikipedia and what I've seen on TV. In other words, I know nothing. If you want to complain about errors of that nature, feel free, but it's not going to change anything because I still know nothing. It's not about the cases, anyway.

3. This fic has Swan Queen as endgame, but it is slow-burn. Repeat: Slow. Burn. AKA there will also be other ships explored/mentioned in real-time or flashbacks. I promise no excessively graphic descriptions of sex with said beards, because ewww heterosexuality, but still...You. Have. Been. Warned.

4. The M rating on this story is not so much for sexxaytimes (there may be some eventually) but the dark/potentially triggering nature of things homicide detectives may deal with. I promise to post specific warnings on relevant chapters if you're concerned.

If you want to continue reading after all of that, please go right ahead, and if you send me reviews, I will love you like Hook and Regina love the floor.

* * *

"You can't be serious," Detective Regina Mills protests, staring at her lieutenant in furious disbelief. She can't believe he called her into the station early for _this. _It's almost as if he delights in finding ways to make her angry.

"But I am. Completely serious."

"Do I have a neon sign on my back that says 'pair me with rookies?'" she seethes. She's been in this unit for twelve years now; she deserves a good partner for once. "I _just _finished breaking in Humbert, and now another? Is this because I'm a woman and supposedly have more patience? Because let me tell you: I don't."

"Oh, I know all about your patience," Lieutenant Locksley chuckles. "And no, this has nothing to do with you being a woman and everything to do with you being the most senior detective in the unit now that Spencer's retired."

"You stuck me with that idiot Jones even when Spencer was still around," she complains petulantly.

"Because Spencer's an asshole."

"And I'm not?"

"Of course you are. If anything, you're worse." Locksley's grinning like the idiot he is, an idiot who's known her for far too long and has far too many tactics for getting on her nerves.

"Great, so pair her with Nolan. He'll shoot rainbows and sunshine out of his ass and make her feel right at home."

"I don't want her to feel right at home. I want her to actually learn to do proper detective work, so I'm pairing her with you. Besides, if I pair her with Nolan, you'll be stuck with Jones."

Regina sighs. She can't believe this is actually happening to her, _again._ "Fine," she harrumphs. "I'll work with this Detective Sven, but if she turns out to be an incompetent moron like Jones and Nolan-"

"Swan," Locksley corrects. Regina glares at him, incensed at being interrupted mid-rant.

"Excuse me?"

"Her name. It's Emma Swan."

"Do I look like I care what her name is, Lieutenant?"

"Well, she _is_ your new partner, and you're bordering dangerously on insubordination, Detective Mills," he says teasingly. Not that he'd ever write her up for anything; she has way too much material for blackmail, and he knows it. She can't report his lack of professionalism for the same reason.

"Shove it, Locksley. I will work with this...Detective Swan." She spits the name out like it leaves an unpleasant taste in her mouth. "But if she turns out to be an incompetent moron, I'm transferring departments so I don't have to put up with your bullshit anymore. Are we finished here?"

"I believe we are."

"Then good day, Lieutenant," she growls before storming out, slamming his office door in her own face.

"Always a pleasure, Regina," he says with a smirk.

* * *

Emma Swan shoves the last bite of her Pop-Tart into her mouth and curses the traffic on Storrow Drive, knowing she should have picked a better route to work for her first day in Homicide. She'd left her apartment at a decent enough hour, so she probably won't be late, but she also won't be as early as she'd like to be.

To say that the twenty-eight year old detective is intimidated would be an understatement. The news of her transfer to homicide came only three months after her promotion, and she'd spent those three months in Computer Crimes. She'd never expected the transfer to be accepted so fast - apparently the old boys' club of the Homicide Unit is full of vacancies now that the old boys keep retiring. She's excited, but damn, this is scary. This is the big leagues. She'll be working with detectives whose casework she studied while she was in the academy, and they'll have to accept her as one of their own.

Practically shaking with nerves, she decides to call her son - that always makes her feel better.

"Hey, Mom!" Henry says happily.

"Hey, kid! I miss you so much! How's New York."

"New York is awesome, but I miss you, too. You're starting your new job today, right?"

"Yup - homicide. I get to catch the big-time bad guys now."

"So cool!" he exclaims. "You're gonna make sure they all get locked up, right?"

"Yeah, kid. Definitely." The ten-year-old's enthusiasm for life always buoys her confidence. "Hey, have a great day at school. Put your dad on the phone, okay?"

"Hello?" her ex-boyfriend sounds like he just woke up, but she has no doubt he's actually been a responsible parent all morning. That's just his voice.

"Hey, Neal. Just checking in to see how everything's going over there."

"Everything's great. Henry's report card came yesterday, all A's except for a B+ in gym. He's really doing well at the new school - he even likes math now."

"That's awesome. You're bringing him up to Boston next weekend, right?"

"Of course. I told him we could take the Amtrak. He's pumped up - and he can't wait to see you again, obviously."

"The feeling's mutual," Emma says distractedly, trying to focus on the road for a moment. "Actually, I'm about to pull into the station. Can I say bye to him really quick?"

"Yeah, sure. Henry!"

About ten seconds later, her son's voice is back on the line. "Hi again," he giggles.

"Hey, kid, just wanted to say I love you. Be good for Dad, and stay safe, okay? I'll see you next weekend."

"I love you, too, Mom. And you stay safe, too!"

* * *

"Detective Swan? I'm Robin Locksley, your new lieutenant."

_I'm your new lieutentant, _Regina mouths mockingly. Could he be any more pompous? Like he had even earned that rank - how dare he swoop in with his winning smile and his "people skills" and take the promotion that _she_ deserved? _She_ had a better closure rate, and all of his so-called "brilliant accomplishments" were from when they were partners.

"Your desk is here," he explains. "And this is Detective Regina Mills. She'll be your partner."

"For now," Regina snaps.

Locksley rolls his eyes. "Yes, for now. With so many new detectives coming in, we've been rotating partners quite frequently, trying to find combinations that work well together. Detective Mills, I trust you can catch your new partner up on all your open cases." Before he walks away, he leans into her ear and whispers, "Be nice."

She snorts, eyes raking up and down her new partner's frame. She's tall, with long blonde hair, and looks like she works out. Good - she'd been worried about getting some soft, flabby computer geek who couldn't handle a foot chase. Aside from the awestruck gleam in her eyes, Detective Swan looks pretty tough. She must be - it takes something special to move up through the ranks so quickly.

"You're _the_ Regina Mills," her new partner observes, her tone almost reverent.

"You've heard of me?" Regina asks uncomfortably. Of course she's heard of her - everyone in the damn city has heard of her after that horror show known as the White case ten years ago. The press and her fellow officers have painted her as some kind of hero or martyr, a completely ridiculous notion after what actually happened.

Emma nods breathlessly. "We studied your work in the academy. You're a legend; you're a-"

"If you say 'hero,' this partnership is finished right now," Regina warns, eyes blazing.

"I was going to say you're a great cop," Emma says quickly. Regina scowls.

"We're going to have to work on your poker face before you start questioning suspects. And we're going to have to work on that jacket before I allow myself to be seen in public with you. It's completely undignified."

"What? This?" Emma gestures to her red leather jacket in surprise. Apart from the color, it looks fairly similar to what everyone else in the squad room is wearing. Except for Regina, of course. Regina is dressed in a suit and could walk into any board meeting downtown without looking out of place.

"Lieutenant Locksley may not have a problem with the Homicide Squad looking like a bunch of classless thugs, but I do. And I will not work cases with you if you don't make at least some attempt to look like a professional!"

"Uhh...right. Noted," Emma mumbles. "I'll dig out the blazers tomorrow morning."

"I'm glad to hear it. Now," she says, dropping a thick stack of files on the new detective's desk, "start reading."

"Pardon?"

"Reading. You're familiar with the act, I presume? These are our open cases."

* * *

After about two hours getting caught up on open cases, Emma is starting to lose focus. Detective Mills is meticulous about her paperwork, which she supposes is a good thing, but it makes so much more to read. And her new partner has been sitting at the desk across from her, doing even more paperwork. The other woman has incredible concentration - she hasn't looked up the entire time. Emma knows, because she's been watching.

She can't believe she's getting a chance to work with the legendary Regina Mills, who has been one of her idols since she first heard about the White case. Detective Mills's heroics were what inspired her to become a cop in the first place. She still has an clip from one of the newspaper articles taped to her wall at home, and she looks at it whenever she needs a reminder of why she puts in the long hours:

_"As police officers, our job is to keep the City of Boston safe, to prevent its people from giving into fear and remind them that good can win. To lead by example, I have to overcome my own fear, and I will be returning to work as soon as possible after my doctors clear me." _

She assumes her new partner's behavior is meant to intimidate her, but that won't happen. Sure, she's heard the rumors that Detective Mills is anything but easy to work with, but she can handle it. She understands. Female cops have to be tough-as-nails to earn respect. She has to earn her own before she can expect to be let in.

Her reverie is interrupted by Lieutenant Locksley's voice. "Mills, Swan," he calls from his office door. "Hit and run driver by the BU Bridge. One dead, several injured."

"Lieutenant, Nolan and I are up," one of the other detectives protests.

"It seems like a fairly straightforward case for our rookie to cut her teeth on," Locksley says pleasantly. "Sorry, Jones. You two will get the next one."

"Let's go," Mills orders. "Get your coat; I drive."

Emma raises her eyebrows and follows without a word. Her first homicide investigation - she hopes she doesn't screw it up.

* * *

When they arrive at the scene, the perimeter has already been secured, and the paramedics are in the process of treating all the injured parties. It looks like about six cars were involved in the accident, and given the state of the vehicles, it's a miracle there was only one casualty.

Regina immediately approaches the Medical Examiner, who is standing outside the door of a badly crushed white sedan.

"Dr. Whale," she says, nodding her head politely but coldly in greeting. "What have we got?"

"Hello, Regina. White male, mid-forties. He looks to have died on impact, likely from a head injury. Here's his wallet - Massachusetts license, says his name is Mark Smith."

"Thank you," Regina says, quickly donning a set of gloves and taking the wallet from the M.E.'s hands.

"Crime scene techs are checking out the car," Whale informs the detectives. "I'll probably forego the full autopsy unless something suspicious pops up in the investigation."

"Excellent, I'll touch base with C.S.U. now." She's about to turn away when she remembers. "Oh, Detective Swan, this is Dr. Victor Whale, our Chief Medical Examiner."

"Emma Swan, nice to meet you," Swan says with an awkward wave, not wanting to shake hands with someone wearing bloodstained gloves. Probably a good idea not to touch Whale, ever, gloves or not, Regina thinks.

"The pleasure's all mine," Whale says, looking the tall blonde up and down with an impressed raise of his eyebrows.

Regina glares at him; if they could just get through one investigation without Whale engaging in some kind of lecherous behavior, she'd be thrilled. "Let us know if you find anything on the body," she orders the M.E.

The crime scene techs walk them through the accident, which seems like a straightforward collision caused by an idiot running a red light. Finding the hit-and-run driver is the top priority.

"Detective Swan," Regina says abruptly, "there are a bunch of uniforms taking witness statements over there. Go find out if there are any worth following up on."

"Sure, Boss, what am I looking for?"

Regina sighs: apparently, her new partner is an idiot with a penchant for infuriating nicknames. Wonderful. "Information about the vehicle at fault - description, plate numbers. Trust your instincts; it should be fairly obvious."

"Right." Emma jogs off in the direction of the crowd gathered around the edge of the crime scene tape, and Regina starts texting the victim's information to Detective Booth, hoping to find a next-of-kin.

* * *

"So far, all we know it was a dark blue pickup truck - people seem to be in disagreement about whether it was two- or four- door. A few witnesses gave partial plates, but..."

"They're all different," Mills guesses. "Of course."

"So, what now?" Emma asks.

"We'll send the information to the boys back at the station, see if they can dig up any vehicle records to give us a lead. Meanwhile, we are going to pay a visit to the victim's wife before interviewing the witnesses at the hospital."

"The victim's wife?" Emma asks nervously. "You mean the dead guy?"

"Yes, his name is Mark Smith. I certainly hope you won't refer to him that way when we're talking to his wife."

"Right, sorry," Emma mutters.

"Have you ever done a notification before, Detective Swan?" Mills asks, gesturing for her to get in the passenger's seat of their unmarked cruiser.

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. "Can't say that I have," she admits. "We didn't encounter many dead people in Computer Crimes."

"Well, you'll learn," the senior detective says in a tone that sounds almost sympathetic. "Let me do the talking and you'll see how it's done. You can just try to say something comforting, like 'I'm sorry for your loss.'"

"That's comforting?" asks Emma, nose wrinkled in distaste.

For just a second, a shadow passes over Detective Mills's bright brown eyes. "No, it's not," she agrees. "Not much is, but we try."

Both women are silent on the drive to the victim's house in Somerville, wrapped up in their own thoughts. Emma is nervous; she's always thought of her job in terms of catching the bad guys, rather than supporting the victims, but she's realizing that this other side of homicide investigation is going to quickly become a big part of her life.

Thankfully, her partner has been at this for a long time, and she knows what she's doing. Emma watches practically in awe as Regina introduces herself and Emma to Mrs. Smith and informs her, in a sensitive and compassionate tone unlike any she's heard from the senior detective so far, of her husband's passing. She offers her condolences and promises that they will do everything they can to find the person responsible.

Emma doesn't get a chance to say anything. She doesn't have to. The victim's wife is hanging on Detective Mills' every word. "You're good at this," she observes, after Mrs. Smith has identified her husband's body and a couple of uniforms are driving her home.

"Years of experience," her partner says tiredly.

"I've just never thought about it," Emma suddenly blurts out. "Telling someone their loved one is dead! I didn't realize, you know?"

"Few people do. It's one of the hardest parts of the job."

"You made it look so easy back there," Emma argues.

Regina lets out a small huff of air. "I used to work in the Sexual Assault Unit way back when, probably when you were still in high school. Compared to that..."

"Anything's easy?"

"I wouldn't necessarily say 'anything,' but, yes. You learn how to speak to people who are under emotional duress."

"Speaking of which, our next stop is Mass General, right?"

"Yes, we have five injured witnesses who are now all in stable condition," Mills reports. "Detective Booth got a call from the hospital while we were out."

They're halfway to the car when the older woman's phone starts buzzing. "Mills," she barks. "Oh, really? Yes, we'll be - Swan, take down this address!" Emma immediately whips her phone out of her pocket and types the address her partner repeats to her.

"What was that all about?" she asks when Regina hangs up the phone.

"Our witnesses at the scene said the hit-and-run driver was in a blue pick-up truck, right?"

"Yeah, why?"

"A car matching that description with pretty severe denting on the front was just spotted in a parking lot two blocks from the original accident."

"That's pretty stupid, if it's the same car," Emma remarks. "Are we gonna go check it out?"

"Not just yet, we obviously need a search warrant first."

Emma looks at her feet. "Right, obviously. I knew that."

"I'm calling the ADA, then we'll let Booth take care of impounding the vehicle. He's working a desk today waiting for Humbert to get out of court." She's already scrolling through her contacts. "Hello? Yes, hello, Miss Blanchard. This is Regina Mills. I need a search warrant for a car involved in a hit-and-run earlier today...Yes, I assume it was the one on the news...Get Judge Gold, he'll come through - if he says no, remind him he owes me a favor, anyway." They continue talking for a while longer (rather, Detective Mills continues barking orders) before hanging up.

"Well, what are you waiting for, Detective Swan? Get in the car!"

* * *

Regina lets her new partner take care of the witness interviews at the hospital - she has to learn to swim on her own at some point, and it should be sooner rather than later. Detective Swan is a little awkward the first time - it's a teenage boy who's obviously shaken; he'd just gotten his license a month ago - but by Witness #5, she's an old pro. Regina considers paying her a compliment, but she doesn't want to make the rookie too comfortable on her first day. Where's the fun in that?

The witnesses all tell a similar tale: a dark blue pickup ran a red light, caused a huge pile-up in the intersection, and then drove off at a high rate of speed despite smoke billowing from its engine.

A phone call from Detective Booth confirms that the truck in the parking lot is definitely the one that caused the accident. The entire front bumper is smashed, and there's severe frame damage. The driver probably parked it so close to the crime scene because the crash rendered it practically un-drivable.

"It's registered to James Reilly of Dorchester," Regina reports after she gets off the phone. "He's a plumber. Booth and some unis are picking him up at a job as we speak. Are you ready to interrogate your first suspect?"

"That was fast," Swan remarks with considerable surprise.

"Yes, well, this was a very straightforward case for your first day. Nothing too emotionally scarring, I should hope." _Or you won't last very long_, she adds internally.

"I don't know, some of this driving stuff...my son's going to be a teenager in a few years. The thought of him out on those streets is a little scary, you know? There are some bad drivers out there."

Detective Swan has a son? Regina tries to hide her shock - she wouldn't have pictured the younger woman as a mother. But then, she has no reason to make such assumptions at all; they just met that very morning. "You have children? Be careful - this line of work can make you completely paranoid for their safety," she warns. "Cold-blooded serial killers and all."

"Well, your average person has a much higher chance of being in a car accident than facing off against a cold-blooded serial killer, so I rest my case."

"Point taken," Regina says coolly, trying to quickly rid her mind of the panicked thoughts attempting to infiltrate it. It's her own fault - she's the one who brought up cold-blooded serial killers in the first place. Sometimes she wonders if she isn't actively trying to make herself suffer.

"So..." Emma trails off.

"So, you have children?"

"A son - he's ten. He lives in New York with his father, so I don't see him as much as I might like, but...yes. I have _a_ child."

"Ten?" Regina asks, before she can even stop herself. She's not trying to be judgmental - really, she's not - but Detective Swan seems quite young to be the mother of a ten year old.

"Yes, I had him when I was a teenager," Emma sighs. "I was stupid, blah blah blah, but I certainly don't regret his birth, and he's a great kid. Doesn't really take after me _or _his father in that regard," she adds with a short laugh.

"I wasn't...I'm sorry," Regina quickly apologizes. "I didn't mean to pry into your personal life."

"Don't worry about it. I never mind talking about Henry. How about you? Any kids?"

"No, I don't," she says softly, keeping her eyes carefully focused on the road. _Henry?_

"Cool. Do any of the guys? The ones I met...I don't really see them as parental types. But, I mean, I've only known them for a few hours."

"Locksley has a son. He's four," Regina explains, grateful for the change in subject. She always hates these kinds of personal conversations, and she was the idiot who started it in the first place because of her damn curiosity. "You'll meet him; he visits the station sometimes. He's quite adorable. None of the others do, though I suspect Nolan wants to have about twelve, once he finds the right woman."

"He really likes kids, huh?"

"He's practically a child himself." Emma gives a small chuckle at the joke, though she doesn't know the man very well yet, and Regina is able to put her previous thoughts out of her mind, at least for now.

* * *

The offending driver almost immediately confesses, which takes most of the fun out of interrogating him. Detective Jones whispers to Emma that Mills is basically foolproof at getting confessions out of a certain subset of male suspects who are easily distracted by her ample breasts or shiny hair. Emma has to agree that her partner is a beautiful woman, but she's almost offended that a "bad guy" would turn over so quickly. Regina makes their job look so easy.

A blood test confirms that his blood alcohol level is well above the limit, which explains most of his idiotic behavior, and his family confirms that he's had a drinking problem for quite some time. ADA Blanchard charges him with DUI and vehicular manslaughter and starts negotiating with his lawyer, a public defender who seems pretty wet behind the ears. Emma would know - she is, too.

"Blanchard's too soft," Mills complains. "Constantly making deals - ridiculous."

"She believes in second chances," Nolan argues. "Giving people the chance to reform their lives!"

"Idiot. A second chance to kill more people, that's what she's giving them!"

"Calm down, Regina," Locksley says lightly. "Well, everyone put in a good day's work today. It's a slow week so far, so let's close up shop. Humbert and Booth, you're on call tonight?"

"That's right, sir," Detective Humbert says quickly. Detective Booth nods beside him.

"Well, here's hoping for a quiet one. Goodnight, all."

"I love slow weeks," says Nolan, walking to the parking garage with Emma, Regina, and his partner, Detective Killian Jones.

"Me, too, mate. Let's get some rum!" Jones says eagerly. "Swan, we'll buy for you, since it's your first day."

"I'm in," Nolan agrees. "Mills?"

"I don't do rum," the senior detective says curtly. "I'll see you bright and early tomorrow morning."

Jones shrugs. "Suit yourself," he laughs.

Emma follows Nolan and Jones - who insist on being called David and Killian after hours - to a drab, dirty bar called The Lion Flower. It's about what she would expect for a cop bar: greasy burgers and fries, cheap beer, some harder spirits for the grouchy, jaded old men (and Killian, apparently).

They're good guys; she has fun joking around with them after a day of trying and failing to impress her lifelong idol. Her first day in homicide was far from awful, sure, and she's glad they closed their joke of a case, but there's no escaping the fact that she spent much of it feeling incompetent.

She turns in early, making fumbling excuses to her two new coworkers, who are arguing over the professionalism of David pursuing his latest crush, who happens to be their ADA.

When she finally gets home, she quickly changes into flannel boxers and curls up under her blanket, but she can't sleep. Something's missing; it's been missing since Neal took Henry to New York. The apartment is too cold and too quiet, and she tosses and turns until she finally admits defeat and pads into Henry's old room. His teddy bear is still there - he claims he's too old for it now, so it stayed in Boston. She clutches it tightly to her chest, eventually falling asleep on her son's bed, wishing it was next weekend already and he was here with her.

* * *

When Regina returns to her apartment, she seals all five of the locks on the door and turns on every light. Then she goes to each room and checks the window locks and makes sure the shower curtain is still open. Finally, she pours herself a generous tumbler of whiskey before returning to the living room, placing her service revolver on the coffee table as she settles onto the couch, still in her work clothes because she can't stand the thought of opening her closet.

She winces as the whiskey burns her throat, but if she swallows enough of it, she can maybe get some sleep tonight without dreaming of a psychotic man with a knife, her fiancé's lifeless eyes, and a baby who will never draw breath.

She turns the TV on to the Weather Channel, as she has every night for the last ten years in the hope that enough background noise will help her forget she's alone.

Alone and still scared after all this time and so very lonely.

She gulps down the rest of the whiskey and squeezes her eyes shut. Sleep will eventually come, if she pretends long enough. She hears the weatherman talking about a cold front moving in from the North Atlantic, and the next thing she knows, it's morning again.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks for all your lovely reviews, follows, favorites, PMs, etc. I'm glad people are excited about this story, and I will work extra hard to make sure it lives up to your expectations.

**Warnings: **This chapter starts to explore a relationship between Regina and Robin, _**which takes place entirely in the past**_but affects the present, that will also be developed further in the next couple of chapters. Please see point #3 in Chapter 1. Also, there's some rather coarse language in the first section.

* * *

"Regina, can we talk?"

"I'm pretty sure you're already talking."

Robin sighs. "I mean alone, in my office."

"I'm pretty sure there's nothing you have to say to me that can't be said in front of the entire squad, _sir,_" Regina challenges, eyes blazing. There's only one other person in the squad room, anyway: Detective Booth, and he's carefully ignoring their conversation.

"Don't fucking do this, Regina." He normally bears her insults with infuriatingly good humor, but for whatever reason, he has no patience for her today, and the thought makes her grin wickedly. When he's in a mood like this, she can get under his skin as well as he gets under hers.

"Do what?" she asks innocently. He just stares at her in exasperation until she relents and follows him into his office. "What's going on, Lieutenant?" she asks once the door is closed. "I'm fairly certain all my paperwork is filed properly, and I haven't gotten a complaint in over eighteen months, so it can't be about that-"

"Do you have to turn every simple interaction into a showdown?" he demands. "Because after three years it's getting pretty damn tiring."

"I don't know what you're talking about. Are you going to tell me why you pulled me into your office first thing in the morning for the second day in a row?"

"Well, before you decided to start fucking World War III, I was going to ask a simple question about how you liked your new partner, and out of respect for her, I didn't want to do it in the middle of the damned squad room."

"Well, aren't you quite crass this morning?" she remarks. "Are you sleeping well?"

"I could ask you the same question."

She meets his eyes with a glare and holds it until he turns away first, as he always does. "So, your partner, Detective Swan," he continues, pretending nothing happened, "is she satisfactory or do I need to start filing your transfer papers?"

"Trying to get rid of me, Lieutenant?"

"Yesterday, you said if she turned out to be an 'incompetent moron' - your words, not mine - that you wanted to transfer so you didn't have to 'put up with my bullshit' - again, your words. So I'll ask again: is she satisfactory?"

"You seemed satisfied enough with her work yesterday."

"I'm satisfied as long as our cases get solved; I'm asking you."

"You're the lieutenant, sir," Regina says sarcastically. "Who am I to question your opinions?"

"What the hell, Regina!" he growls. "Will you just put aside your ridiculous personal vendetta against me for _one fucking second_ and answer the damned question so we can both get on with our days? My God, I never would have taken this fucking promotion if I'd known it was going to destroy our relationship like this."

"We never had a relationship," Regina mutters, just to be spiteful. If he's going to take liberties with the truth, she can, too; of course he would have taken the fucking promotion, regardless of her feelings. It's better pay and better hours and he's a single dad who should probably not be running around the streets all day at the considerable risk of making his son an orphan. She would have done the exact same thing in his position, minus telling him about it in bed. But, anyway, she's gotten a rise out of him, which is all she wanted, so she smiles sweetly and says, "My partner lacks experience but seems to be adjusting well enough. No transfer will be necessary at the present time. Will that be all, Lieutenant Locksley?"

He runs a hand through his hair and looks so exhausted she almost feels badly for him, until she remembers being naked with him practically inside her and hearing him say that he was getting promoted to lieutenant - _her_ lieutenant.

"Yes, Detective Mills, that will be all," he sighs.

"Have a nice day, sir."

* * *

Emma's second morning on the job can be described with just one word: slow. She supposes, in many ways, that's a good thing. It means people aren't getting murdered. However, it means she's stuck at her desk filling out paperwork and, since her new partner is to paperwork what her high school history teacher was to bibliographies, it's not exactly a walk in the park. Not to mention, the blazer she dug out of the back of her closet this morning is making her extremely uncomfortable. She misses her leather jacket.

"No, this is incorrect," Detective Mills says for the third time.

Emma is starting to get frustrated. "I double-checked everything on the form; it's all there," she insists, afraid that her voice is about to start turning into a whine.

"Yes, but the form itself is wrong. You filled it out correctly, but you were supposed to use-"

Emma doesn't hear the end of the sentence over the sound of her hand crumpling the sheet of paper she just worked so hard to fill out into a tight ball. She places it with the others on her desk in a pile that reminds her of ammunition for heavy artillery. Maybe with her next failure, she can make an origami cannon.

"Actually you can use same-" Nolan starts to say, but Mills silences him with a deadly glare. "Homicide paperwork can be confusing," he amends lamely. "You'll get the hang of it soon enough."

Mills rolls her eyes and mutters something under her breath about how anything is confusing when you're dimwitted, and Emma ducks her head in shame. Her plan to impress her new partner is not going very well. In fact, it's going very poorly. She's never been one for organization; reading people and thinking on her feet, yes, but nothing that involves minutiae.

"Mills!" Locksley calls, striding purposefully out of his office, "I need your files on the - Swan, what's going on? Are we having a paper snowball fight?"

"No, sir, it's just-"

"You need my files on what?" Regina interrupts, and Emma is torn between gratitude to her partner for saving her from the lieutenant's possible wrath (although he really doesn't seem like the kind of guy capable of feeling wrath) and embarrassment that such an act would even be necessary.

"The White case, what else?" Locksley sighs. "Commissioner wants to use it for one of those ridiculous experiential education panels at the academy, again."

"And they need my personal files?"

"Apparently so."

"You see," Regina says smugly, turning to Emma, "_this_ is why it's important to keep meticulous records. You never know when someone will need the files ten years later to do...well, whatever it is they're trying to do now."

"They asked me if you'd join the panel as a featured speaker," Locksley mutters apologetically.

"About White? I assume you told them no."

"I didn't tell them anything; I figured you could do it much more colorfully yourself. Here's the number," the lieutenant says tiredly. "Do me a favor and don't say anything that will cost both of our jobs."

Mills rolls her eyes. "Wouldn't dream of it. Here's the file."

Locksley gingerly accepts the thick manila folder like it might explode in his hand. "Thanks. Maybe someday we'll be able to burn this and forget it ever happened."

"Wishful thinking," Regina snorts, her eyes cold and humorless. "Besides, why would I ever want to burn all the notes I worked so hard on? Speaking of which, Detective Swan, now that you've had an absurdly long break eavesdropping on my conversation with our superior officer, shall we discuss the importance of legible handwriting?"

Locksley, Jones, and Nolan all hide smirks as they retreat to their respective workstations, safely hidden from Mills's line of fire.

"Sorry," Emma mutters, fidgeting with a stray lock of hair. She hates feeling so incompetent; she obviously wasn't prepared for this promotion, and her new mentor seems to have very little patience for teaching rookies.

"Don't be sorry, be better," Mills scowls.

Emma bites her lower lip and grabs a new form, filling out the exact same information for possibly now the fifth time - she's losing track. She writes slowly, in painstakingly neat cursive, because for some reason her partner writes like a penmanship instructor from the Victorian Era. Her eyes dart frantically over the form one more time before she hands it to Mills, fingers crossed under her desk that this version will finally meet the older detective's satisfaction.

"This is acceptable," Mills says with a barely perceptible nod of approval, and Emma lets out a sigh of relief, visibly relaxing in her chair, because she finally did something right. "Now you just have fill it out in triplicate and do the same for the other witnesses."

Emma glances at her notes from yesterday and groans - she interviewed at least twenty witnesses. Her last department wasn't like this - she never had to actually talk to people or, for that matter, write things by hand. Still, she tells herself, this is better. She's making a difference and getting the most dangerous of criminals off the streets, keeping her hometown safe and secure. She's getting to work with Regina Mills and Robin Locksley, both of whom have been her idols since her early days in the academy.

They're absolutely nothing like she had imagined, but she chooses to let that go for now.

"So, Nolan," Jones is saying across the room, "did you ever make a decision regarding our talk last night?"

"Not an appropriate conversation topic for the workplace," Nolan mutters. "Ask me on lunch break."

"Come on, mate! She's stopping by in half an hour to meet about that Dorchester shooting suspect. Just ask her out. Whether she says yes or no, it'll put you out of your misery."

"I'm not asking her out _at work_," hisses the sandy-haired detective. "Are you insane?"

"Just do it. Swan, back me up here!" Jones calls out. "Tell him to just do it."

"As I said last night, I have no interest in Nolan's love life," Emma says with a nervous look at her glaring partner. "Leave me out of this."

"Are we in a police station or a middle school?" Mills demands angrily. "I can't seem to tell the difference right now."

Smirking, Nolan whispers, "Now you've done it," to Jones.

Emma inhales sharply as a completely enraged Regina Mills pushes herself up from her desk and storms over to the two male detectives, whose smiles have now been wiped from their faces. "You are creating a distraction that is preventing my partner and I from performing the duty we have sworn to fulfill, and I would greatly appreciate it if you discussed your idiotic schoolboy crush off the clock and out of my presence. Have I made myself clear?"

* * *

ADA Blanchard finally shows up for her meeting with Jones and Nolan, and Booth and Humbert have been called out on a case, leaving Regina alone with her new partner. She's actually quite impressed with Detective Swan's quick progress; it's only been one morning and her paperwork is already about ninety-five percent of the way to the senior detective's standards. It took a nearly a month to get Humbert up to this level, and Jones still wasn't there after six months when she finally refused to work with him anymore.

She magnanimously suggests they both break for lunch, and they're about to order paninis from the new place around the corner when Locksley comes out of his office again. He's changed into a suit and has a frazzled expression that makes Regina immediately drop the phone.

"Mills, I need you," he barks. "Preferably without flames coming out of your mouth because this situation is serious. I just got off the phone with Senator Billings's office."

"What's going on?" she asks, giving him her full attention. She may despise the man who doesn't deserve to be her boss, but not more than she respects the job. She lives for serious situations.

"He's dead," Robin says shortly.

Regina's eyes widen, and thoughts of lunch disappear completely from her mind. "Dead? How? A state Senator's been murdered?"

"Cause of death is unclear, but his home is already getting swarmed by press. The Commissioner wants me to go personally deal with it. And, of course, they want my best detectives, so..." his voice trails off and he gestures feebly at her.

"Of course." Regina stands and immediately grabs her coat. "Detective Swan, shall we?"

"I meant..." Locksley pulls her into his office and sighs. "I meant just you. Swan's a rookie; I need someone experienced in dealing with the press and high profile cases."

"Detective Swan is my partner, and she will assist with the investigation," she says firmly. "Or were you expecting me to take on this high profile case on my own?"

"I was going to get Nolan-"

"Swan is more competent and less irritating," Regina argues. She avoids mentioning that neither of those traits is particularly difficult to achieve - Nolan is marginally better than Jones, but not by much, and his self-righteousness loses him any advantage he may have had. She will _not _work with him.

The lieutenant raises his eyebrows in surprise. "You said yourself that she lacks experience."

"And how do you suggest she gain it? You and I didn't get where we are by being left at home while senior detectives did all the work. You wanted me to teach her; that's what I'm trying to do."

Locksley rubs his face tiredly. "I guess you're right," he concedes.

"There is no 'guess.' I'm right." She forcefully opens the door to his office and calls, "Swan! Are you ready?"

* * *

Dozens of reporters have already clustered in the deceased Senator's front yard when the detectives arrive. Locksley informs them that the Police Department has no comment on the death at the present time, and the patrol officers working crowd control quickly let them into the pristine white mansion.

"Nice house," Swan mutters appreciatively.

"Detective Swan," Regina cuts in, "you will follow behind me and observe the proceedings. Try to refrain from making any comments - anything could be misinterpreted or leaked to reporters."

Emma dutifully stands off to the side and watches as Locksley discusses the body with Dr. Whale.

"Time of death was approximately three hours ago, judging by the state of the body," the Medical Examiner explains.

"And the cause?"

"That's the problem: there isn't one."

"What do you mean?" the lieutenant asks, brow furrowed in confusion.

"I mean, there's nothing to suggest that the death was unnatural," Whale says. "No injuries, nothing to suggest he was poisoned or suffered an overdose of some kind, no signs of suffocation or anything like that."

"Okay, so why are we here?"

"Well, there's also nothing to suggest a natural death: no obvious signs of heart attack or stroke, and he's only about forty-five with no health problems. He was training to run the Boston Marathon in a few weeks. The wife wants me to do a full autopsy, and I might need to do one just to determine the cause of death."

"Then that's what you'll do," Locksley replies. "The press is all over this case already. We'll go over everything with a fine-toothed comb, even if it just confirms for the media and his wife that he died of natural causes."

Meanwhile, Regina is across the room, talking to the Senator's grieving widow.

"I was out shopping this morning," she weeps, "and when I came back - about an hour ago - he was just passed out on the couch. I thought he had just fallen asleep reading the newspaper, which he usually does if he doesn't have anywhere to be that day, but then I tried to wake him for lunch, and he was cold, and I called an ambulance but-" the woman's voice cracks and she breaks down sobbing in the detective's arms.

"Mrs. Billings, did your husband suffer from any health problems that you know of?" Regina asks gently.

"No!" the Senator's wife insists angrily, immediately straightening and wiping the tears from her eyes. "Your M.E. tried to insist it was a heart attack or something preposterous like that, but I told him: my husband was in perfectly good health. He's never been sick a day in his life! I want a full investigation - someone murdered my husband!"

"Yes, Mrs. Billings, Dr. Whale is going to do a full autopsy to help us determine the cause of your husband's death, but have you seen or heard anything unusual in the last few days to suggest that anyone may have wanted him dead?"

"His office receives death threats all the time! Fringe groups, crazy people - I kept telling him to hire a body guard, but he always refused." At that, she breaks down again.

"I see." Regina purses her lips and tries to suppress a sigh. "Maybe you can come down to the station to give a full statement, and we'll contact his office to look into these death threats. I assume they kept records of them?"

While her partner tries to coax the grief-stricken - and, Emma is starting to suspect, not completely sane - woman to return to the police station with her, Emma starts to take a look around the room. The Senator is laid out on the floor, his clothes and glasses a mess from paramedic's efforts to try to revive him. His newspaper is strewn across the carpet. Besides that, everything looks like she might expect it to in the living room of an insanely rich person who probably has a cleaning service come in several times a week.

One of the uniformed officers leads Mrs. Billings to a cruiser to return to the station, and Regina turns back to the crime scene and her partner. "See anything interesting, Swan?" she asks drily. "Or do you agree with Locksley that the death was natural and we're all making much ado about nothing?"

"Shakespeare?" the blonde comments, though it's obvious she's not really listening. She's approaching the newspaper that's lying in scattered sections in front of the couch. She's reaching out to -

"Gloves, Detective Swan!" Regina hisses urgently.

"Right," her partner looks sheepish for a moment before hurriedly asking a crime scene tech for a pair of gloves. As soon as her hands are safely covered, she picks up the front page.

"I knew I'd seen this story before," she muses. "Look!" she shoves the paper into Regina's face, and the older detective quickly skims the cover story about a power outage caused by the snowstorm...yesterday? "This is the _Globe _from, like, two months ago. I remember reading this on the train to New York."

Regina raises one eyebrow, impressed. "Good catch, Detective. So, now we have to ask ourselves, why would Senator Billings be reading a two-month-old issue of the _Boston Globe?_"

"He wouldn't," Emma says immediately. "He's a senator, so he should be pretty up-to-date on current events. Unless there was something important he wanted to remember - but why wouldn't he just use Google?"

"His wife says he was holding this newspaper when she found him," Regina says slowly. "Which tells us..."

"It was a set-up?" Emma guesses. "Or the wife's lying. She seemed a little off to me. Something about her body language..."

"Yes," Regina agrees. "Something was off about her. However, she was the one insisting on the full autopsy, which would make no sense if she had something to do with his death."

"Unless, she's crazy, or she set it up to frame someone else," Emma argues.

"We'll try not to use the word crazy," Regina gently scolds. "Until the cause of death has been determined, there are no suspects, and she is merely the victim's widow, whom we must treat with respect and compassion. But I like your instincts," she adds.

Emma's cheeks turn slightly pink, and Regina internally chides herself for giving away a compliment too soon.

"So what do we do now?" the rookie detective asks, clearing her throat. "I mean, while we're waiting to find out if there's an investigation or not."

"We return to the station and talk to the wife. Depending on what she says, we'll assess from there. I assume Dr. Whale is going to do the autopsy tomorrow morning. We should most likely try to be present for that."

"Watch the autopsy? Why?"

_Because I don't trust Whale, _Regina thinks. Aloud, she only says, "It helps to be more knowledgeable about what kinds of things we're looking for, especially in cases like this where the press is involved. It helps keep everyone on the same page."

"Cool," Emma says quietly. "I've never seen one before."

"The first one can be slightly...jarring," the older detective admits, "but you'll quickly get used to it. Unless you're Nolan."

Emma smirks. "You're really not his biggest fan, are you?" she observes.

"I don't know if you've noticed, dear, but I'm not really anyone's biggest fan. Now let's return to the station before we're forced to endure a press conference. Lieutenant, I'm sure you can handle these friendly reporters on your own," she says to Locksley, an evil grin forming on her face.

He groans. "Are you and Swan going to get an official statement from the widow?"

"Yes, and we're going to ask her why her husband would have been reading a newspaper from two months ago," Regina says. "You can thank Detective Swan for catching that detail."

* * *

Emma is unsure how she manages to end up at the bar with the guys for the second night in a row. She's not a big drinker, and The Lion Flower has very little appeal if you're not looking to overload on either alcohol or grease. Still, she has to say she enjoys hanging out with her fellow detectives outside of work. She's always been a loner, pretty much keeping to herself with a few notable exceptions, but she's beginning to see that in this job, some kind of social support system is going to be necessary.

The wife hadn't given them any information; she'd just insisted repeatedly that someone had murdered her husband. Emma had tried not to roll her eyes, and Regina had given her the business card of a grief counselor and assured her that the autopsy would be done first thing in the morning.

"We're giving this case top priority," she'd said.

The detectives are pretty much evenly split about whether the Senator's death is suspicious, and Emma once again finds herself intimidated by the whole process. Investigating homicides _is_ what she's always wanted to do, but she hadn't completely prepared herself for how deep and heavy these cases might turn out to be. She knows nothing about grief or loss, and she's especially unfamiliar with what might cause one person to kill another. Still, she supposes there's no point in dwelling on all of this now, and she forces her mind back to the here and now.

"It's inappropriate!" Nolan - or rather, _David_ - exclaims. His partner is still harping on his cowardice for not asking their ADA out on a date.

"Come on, mate, she could turn out to be the love of your life."

"Or it could turn out horribly and you'll still have to work with her every day," Locksley warns. He has also invited Emma to call him by his first name, but she can't bring herself to do it just yet. "Getting together with coworkers is bad news."

"Ignore the cynic," says Killian, taking a generous gulp of his rum. "Besides, weren't you married to another cop?"

"Well, that turned out horribly in a different way," Locksley says sadly. "But Marian and I never actually worked together in the same unit."

"And Mary Margaret isn't even in the BPD!" Killian grins triumphantly. "You have no excuse."

"So what? I still see her at work at least once a week," David argues. "I have a closer working relationship with her than with any cop outside of our squad. I'm not asking her out."

"Suit yourself, mate, I'm just trying to help you find your eternal happiness," Killian says with a shrug. "Next round's on me!"

"So, Swan," Locksley says, "I see my detectives haven't scared you away yet. How are you liking our squad so far?"

"If her partner hasn't got her running for the hills, I'm not sure what can," David jokes, taking a small sip of his beer. "You're handling Mills like a champ."

"Regina is a lot to handle," Locksley concedes, "but you won't find a better mentor in any police department in the country."

"I know, sir," Emma says seriously, allowing her hero-worship to creep into her voice. "Working with her has been my dream since I was in the academy. Actually, I think it's every female cop's dream."

"She's quite a good role model," Locksley agrees. "She's simultaneously the most cynical and the most idealistic person I've ever known," he explains with a kind of irritated fondness. "This job is her life, and even after everything she's been through, she still thinks she can change the world. She's got a passion that makes her an outstanding cop, and that's why I always have her train the rookies. That said, she hates most people, but you've obviously done something to impress her."

"Really?" Shocked, Emma thinks back to her past two days on the job and can't recall any instance where her new partner seemed especially impressed with her work; the newspaper thing wasn't a huge deal - Mills or Locksley probably would have figured it out in a few minutes even if she hadn't been there. She will admit that she hasn't received as much vitriol from Detective Mills as some of their other coworkers over the last two days, but she had assumed it was because she was new.

"Really," the lieutenant confirms with a vigorous nod. "For whatever reason, she seems to respect you, and her respect isn't the easiest to earn."

Emma shrugs. Killian has returned with the next round, and the conversation shifts toward the male detectives' weekend pursuits and away from Emma's partner, whom she finds harder to read than Elvish.

The group decides to call it a night when Emma has had enough to be nicely buzzed but not enough to feel the effects the next morning. She manages to catch the last subway home and drifts off to sleep much more easily than she did the night before. She's actually contributing to a high-profile homicide investigation, her lifelong hero might not think she's an idiot, and she gets to see Henry again in eight days that seem like they'll go by a lot quicker than she imagined.

* * *

Regina's alarm goes off at 4:45 after an almost completely sleepless night. Slightly dazed, she squints around her living room for a few moments before realizing where she is and fumbling for her phone to silence the blaring alarm before it wakes her neighbors. She glares at the device regretfully; she'd actually been having a good dream for once, but sometimes those are even worse than the nightmares when she awakens to the unpleasant fact that they're not real.

Quickly shaking the emotions from her head, she throws on a reflective jacket and quickly laces her sneakers for her morning run along the Charles River. This is her favorite time of day, just before the sun comes up, before there's anyone to put on a mask for, when she can lose herself to the pounding of her feet against the pavement and just forget. It's the one time she truly feels free. She never listens to music or requires any kind of distraction - running is the distraction.

She's been going for almost an hour, not paying much attention to her surroundings, when she crashes head-on into someone running in the opposite direction. She sputters in anger and confusion for a moment - Were they running on the wrong side? Was she? - before realizing who it is.

"Detective Swan!" Regina exclaims with a gasp.

"Detective Mills, hello," her new partner pants. "Sorry about that. I guess I wasn't looking where I was going."

"Don't worry about it, dear," she quickly reassures the younger woman, surprised at the words coming out of her own mouth."It was probably partially my fault. I tend to get a bit lost in thought while running."

"Yeah, me too," says Swan breathlessly, obviously relieved not to incur the older detective's wrath. "Do you run here often?"

"Every morning. And you?"

"Same. Well, as long as it's not icy. Then I go to the gym."

"I've never seen you out here before," the brunette observes.

"Likewise, but, you know, the path is pretty crowded."

Regina nods. "And, to be fair, I suppose I didn't know who you were before, so I wouldn't have known if I did see you."

"True. How far do you usually run?"

"Seven to ten miles, depending on how much time I have."

Emma whistles, impressed. "Damn, woman! And I was impressed with myself for doing three!"

"I have to stay in shape to keep up with all these twenty-something rookies like yourself that Locksley insists on bringing in," she explains with a slight roll of her eyes. The last thing she wants is to become a desk jockey - she'll leave the force before _that_ happens.

"Yeah, well, you seem pretty in shape to me," the younger detective says, eyeing her body appreciatively. Regina tries to hide a smug smile.

"I do okay for an old lady," she says lightly.

"You're not an old lady," Emma protests. "You're...what? Like, thirty-seven?"

"Forty-three, but thank you."

"Wow, yeah, okay. I guess you are kind of an old lady," the blonde jokes. Grinning, she checks her watch. "Well, we should probably continue our workouts if we want to make it to work on time. You want to run together?"

"I run alone," Regina says quickly. "You wouldn't be able to keep up, anyway." With that, she takes off again.

"See you at the station!" Emma calls after her. Regina gives a small wave without turning her head, mentally calculating her timing. She'll have to turn around soon, and, thanks to Detective Swan's interruption, she won't make the full ten miles she had planned.

She normally hates leaving things unfinished, but nevertheless, she feels strangely satisfied at the end of her workout.


	3. Chapter 3

**Warning: **The last section of this chapter (it's all in italics; you can't miss it) contains actual and attempted murder and attempted heterosexual sex. It's 100% flashback, so if you absolutely don't want to read such things, you can skip to the last paragraph and still mostly understand the real-time plot.

* * *

"Hey there, kid," Emma says brightly. "How's your morning?"

"It's really good!" exclaims her always-energetic son. "Dad and I went to get bagels, and now we're walking to school. I only have a half-day today, so Jack and I might go biking in Central Park this afternoon."

_Jack is...? _Emma thinks to herself. Henry has way too many friends in New York; she can't keep track of all of them, especially from this distance. He was never so popular in Boston - always more interested in his books than human interaction. She wonders if it was her fault and he's better off without her.

"So, what are you doing today?" Henry asks.

"Well, I'm about to eat my own bagel, even though it's obviously not as good as yours, being from Boston and all."

"Obviously."

"And I just arrived at work. I get to watch an autopsy this morning."

"An autopsy?" She can almost see Henry's nose wrinkled in confusion through the phone. She wishes she could see it in person so she could poke it and giggle with him like they used to do when he still lived with her.

"Yeah, an autopsy," she explains. "It's like a surgery to find out how someone died."

"Oh. That sounds kind of cool, but also kind of gross."

"My thoughts exactly."

"Speaking of cool things, can we go to the aquarium when I'm in Boston next weekend? I heard there's a new penguin show."

"Of course," Emma promises. "We can do whatever you want - the whole weekend is yours. It's like your personal holiday: Henry Day."

"Awesome!"

"Yeah, anything special you want to do, just write it down and we'll try to fit in the whole list. I miss you so much, kid." She feels a stray tear springing to her eye and quickly wipes it away because she doesn't want to cry in the middle of the lobby at Boston Police Headquarters.

"I miss you, too," says Henry. "You could come live here, you know. You can transfer to the NYPD."

"I could," she muses. Or Neal could have transferred to any of the hundreds of Boston area IT companies that gave him offers instead of moving four hours away and taking their son with him, but she chooses to let that go for now. She's not going to badmouth Henry's other parent in front of him.

"By the way, Dad's right here. He wants to know if there's anything important you need to talk to him about...or just say hello."

"I suppose I could just say-" she starts to answer, but then she sees her partner down the hall, waving her toward the elevator. "On second thought, tell Dad I said hi and to email or text me later if anything comes up concerning you. I have to get to work."

"Okay, bye Mom. Love you!"

"Love you, too," she says, blowing a kiss through the phone as she approaches the elevator. "Have a great day!"

Detective Mills raises an eyebrow as Emma ends the call. "Your son, I assume," she comments.

"You assume right," Emma replies, stuffing a giant bite of bagel into her mouth. "So, is it time for the autopsy? Should we go?"

"You make it sound like a party," the senior detective remarks with a small smile. "And yes, we should go, but you should probably finish your breakfast first."

"Oh, right," Emma mumbles. "We're probably not allowed to bring food in the morgue, huh?"

"Actually, I've seen people do it before, but I find the practice quite disgusting, not to mention disrespectful."

"Yeah, I definitely wouldn't want someone stuffing their face over my dead body. I'll try to eat fast."

"Don't give yourself heartburn, dear. Whale rarely starts on time, anyway." The brunette gestures to the small travel mug in her hand and adds, "I'd also like to finish this coffee without scalding my tongue."

"Probably a good plan," agrees Emma. "I hate it when that happens and you can't taste anything for days."

"Indeed."

The two women finish breakfast and don scrubs before heading into the morgue, where Dr. Whale is waiting for them.

"The blood tests I sent to the lab yesterday came back negative for any common toxins," the Medical Examiner explains in place of a greeting.

"Have you checked for uncommon ones?"

"Next on my list, once I have a better idea of what kind of thing we might be looking for. I also ran a few scans last night that showed all of his organs were in good condition, apart from his being dead. The Senator was a healthy guy - only problem I can find at first glance is that his feet were in terrible condition. Completely covered with blisters, and he has a few missing toenails."

"He was training for a marathon," Mills points out.

Emma grimaces. "I'm guessing he didn't die from an infected blister?"

"Everything in his blood-work was relatively normal - no elevated white blood cell count that would indicate an infection," Whale reports, absentmindedly looking over his test results from the previous day.

"Detective Swan, any thoughts?" Mills asks, gesturing to the body.

"I...um..." Emma gulps. It's not like she's never seen a dead body, but she's certainly never been asked her thoughts on one before. And, quite frankly, she's never had any thoughts about a dead body besides, "Oh, that's sad." But Mills is expecting _something _from her, so she hesitantly approaches the autopsy table and says, "Whale's right. He looks like he's pretty healthy, except, you know, dead."

"Yes, dear," Mills says with a short laugh. "I believe that's why we're attending his autopsy."

Emma flushes crimson and continues, "His feet are definitely something else. I'm surprised he didn't have staph or something - those blisters do _not_ look well cared for."

"Yes, for someone who was so invested in healthcare reform, he didn't do too much in terms of his own preventative care," the older detective observes, "but we've already established he didn't die from any infection."

Emma wrinkles her nose in disgust as she looks more closely - there's something weird just under his right ankle. Two tiny red dots that she almost missed.

"Hey, guys, what's that?"

Detective Mills, apparently not as disgusted by the victim's poor foot hygiene, leans in and squints at the marks. "That's odd - it looks like a set of two puncture wounds. That's not from running, unless he was sticking tacks in his shoes."

"Definitely not tacks," Whale mutters. "Size and shape are all wrong. I didn't notice these before with all the blisters. You've got a good eye, detective."

Whale takes out a ruler and starts measuring the odd markings. "Two small puncture wounds, about one and a half centimeters apart, nearly symmetrical in shape and size. We're looking for a sharp, slightly curved object, with two points."

"As a weapon?" Emma asks, brow furrowed in confusion. "Do you think this wound is related to how he died?"

"It's the most likely possibility we have at the moment," Whale replies. "So, yes, I think it bears further investigation."

"What would make a mark like that?" Mills wonders out loud. "That's not something we typically see."

"Sharp, curved...a hook?" Emma guesses. "A miniature dagger?"

* * *

"Fang marks," Regina informs Locksley smugly. "On the victim's right ankle. _Not_ a natural death."

"Fangs?" Jones asks from his desk across the room. "As in, he was killed by a vampire?"

"No, genius," Swan scoffs, and Regina regards her young protégé proudly. "We're thinking more along the lines of a snake."

"Death by snakebite? Certainly makes more sense than _Twilight_ suddenly coming to life," Locksley jokes. "I take it Whale found some kind of venom in his bloodstream?"

"He's testing it as we speak. The bite marks were only discovered this morning." She gives Swan a small nod of acknowledgment which Locksley immediately picks up on. He's known her long enough to know that she doesn't give credit where it's not due.

"Impressive. So, Regina, those transfer papers I had prepared for you, should I shred them?" he jokes.

"You're transferring? What's that supposed to mean?" Swan looks genuinely upset at the idea, and Regina feels her heart, or whatever it is that's in her chest nowadays, melting a little.

"Relax, dear," she says soothingly. "Sometimes our dimwitted lieutenant likes to have inside jokes with himself. You'll soon learn that it's best to simply not acknowledge him."

Locksley rolls his eyes and gets back to business. "So, can we officially state that he died from a snakebite? I've had the commissioner and the press crawling up my ass since last night - there were even reporters at Roland's daycare this morning."

"Whale can't make an official declaration until the blood tests come back, no," Regina says. "So, I suppose the press will be hounding you for a bit longer."

"Wait, they showed up at your kid's daycare?" Swan asks disbelievingly. "Are they for real?"

"Is Roland okay?" Regina demands. She loves the boy as much as she despises his father. "If they traumatized him too much, I'll take them out. I'm pretty sure most of the media thinks I'm unhinged enough they'd hardly be surprised if I went on a reporter killing spree."

Locksley snorts. "While I appreciate the offer, I think seeing a couple of reporters harass his father is less traumatizing overall than having to visit Auntie 'Gina in prison after she gets put away for manslaughter."

She's almost touched by implication that Roland would still get to visit her in prison, but she certainly won't admit that in front of Robin. It's bad enough that he saw her tears when the little boy made her a Mother's Day card last year.

"Anyway," the lieutenant continues, "is there any chance that this snakebite was some kind of random accident, like he was walking barefoot in his garden? Or are we leaning toward the homicide angle?"

"His feet were clean," Swan observes. "I mean...they were...there wasn't any soil on them."

Regina chuckles. "It did not appear that he had been walking barefoot outdoors. Whether the snakebite was an accident remains to be determined. We'll refrain from speculation until Whale confirms what kind of snake it was."

Swan looks intrigued. "What are you thinking?"

"Well, if it's a snake commonly found in Massachusetts and active during this season, we would have no reason to suspect foul play. Even if he wasn't walking outside, he lives in an old house with a garden, outside of the city center, and something could have easily slithered inside. Now, if it's a rare snake..."

"You might think someone had set it on him? Like an attack dog or something...or an attack snake, I guess."

"This one catches on quickly," Locksley observes. "Definitely one of our more worthwhile hires."

"Yeah, well, I have a good teacher," Swan mumbles, flashing her partner a shy smile.

Regina doesn't hear whatever the moron says in reply, because suddenly her face feels about a million degrees and her heart is pounding so loudly it can probably be heard down the street and she thinks she hears wind rushing in her ears. What the hell is going on with her?

"Mills, are you sick?" Nolan asks, watching her tightly grip the back of her desk chair in order to stay upright.

"I'm fine, just a bit light-headed," she chokes out. "Low blood sugar or something."

Swan checks her watch and raises an eyebrow. "We were in that autopsy for a really long time. It's practically noon."

"Yes, Regina, why don't you take a lunch break?" Locksley suggests. "Maybe take Detective Swan with you? You can show her the good sub place at-"

"I will eat lunch where and with whom I see fit," Regina says coldly, angry that he would even think of trying to tell her what to do with her personal time and even angrier that he's looking at her so _knowingly _when she doesn't even know what there is to be knowing about. "But, Detective Swan, you are welcome to join me if you wish."

"I, um...actually brought my own lunch," the younger detective says hesitantly, looking back and forth between her partner and lieutenant like she has no idea what just happened. "But thanks for the offer."

* * *

Regina is about three and a half miles into her morning run when she feels someone approaching quickly from behind. She moves slightly aside to let whoever it is pass, but instead the person comes up beside her and starts running at the same pace.

"Hey," says the breathy voice of Emma Swan, just over her left shoulder. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Good morning, Detective Swan," Regina grumbles, glad she stopped herself from throwing the elbow strike she was considering. "To what do I owe the pleasure of you disturbing my morning run, again?"

"Oh, I was just out here, and I saw you, and I thought I'd try to catch up. You know, say hello and all that. Plus, Officer Lucas - have you met her? - she wants to get a bunch of us to sign up for the New York City Marathon in the fall, to raise money for the Canine Officers Fund, and I thought, maybe, I should start running more miles to see if I can do it, and I was wondering if-"

"You could run with me?" Regina interrupts. _Absolutely not_, she wants to say.

"You seem to have a much higher average mileage than I do," Emma admits with a small laugh. "I thought if I could tag along, have someone to pace me...I won't bother you or mess up your stride or anything, I promise."

"I prefer to run without company," Regina says. Or, at least that's what she thinks she says. What she actually says is, "That would be fine, Detective Swan." Apparently, her brain and mouth are operating on two different planes.

"Wait, really?" the blonde gasps, looking about as surprised as Regina feels.

She wants to take it back, but she doesn't. Instead she says, "But I won't wait for you if you can't keep up, or follow you if you run ahead. And don't speak to me unless it's an emergency."

"I can handle that," the younger detective agrees, falling into step a few feet behind her mentor. And, evidently, she can, because she's so quiet Regina almost forgets that she's there until she turns around at her halfway point and sees that Emma is still right behind her. She's breathing heavily, but showing no sign of slowing down.

"Is this pace okay for you?" Regina asks.

"If I said it wasn't, would that change anything?"

"No, probably not."

"Then the pace is fine."

The two women run the remaining five miles in silence. Regina is slightly worried her partner won't be able to keep up with her for the entire distance, but every time she turns around, she sees the messy blonde curls bobbing along just a few steps back.

"I usually stop here," Regina says, slowly tapering off the pace at the turn-off to her apartment. "It's five miles each way, ten total," she offers as an explanation, "though you only did about six and a half of them."

"That's plenty for now," Emma pants. "I'm going to be so sore later. And I don't want all my toenails to fall off like Senator Billings."

"Keep moving so you can bring your heart rate down gradually," Regina orders, slowly pacing back and forth on the side of the trail to get her own breathing under control. "Then we'll stretch."

"You sure know a lot about running," the younger woman remarks. "Has it always been one of your hobbies?"

Regina shrugs. "I suppose so. I started way back in high school, and only miss a morning if I'm sick or injured or there's some monumental disaster going on." Truthfully, she wouldn't even consider running a hobby; it's like food or water or air for her soul, and she'd probably suffer some kind of breakdown if she couldn't do it. But it's way too soon to admit something like that to a coworker she's known for less than a week.

She leads Detective Swan through a few simple stretches - she sees some runners doing insanely complex routines, but she's always believed less is more - and instructs her to stay hydrated throughout the day and eat a bit of protein for muscle recovery.

"This was fun," her partner says. "Can we do it again?"

"I start from this spot at five A.M. every day," she informs the rookie detective. "If you would like to tag along, well, it's a public trail. I certainly can't do anything to stop you."

Emma grins. "I'll be here, ready to work my ass off," she promises. "But now I should probably get going so I can shower before work. Wouldn't want to stink up the squad room."

"Believe me, dear, your stench is nothing compared what that squad room has seen in the past. Nevertheless, a shower is probably good idea."

"Yeah, I think so. See you in an hour."

"Goodbye, Detective Swan."

"It's Emma. I mean, if we're going to be running buddies, you can probably start calling me by my first name."

"I would hardly call us 'buddies,'" Regina argues, "but if that's what you prefer, then, goodbye, Emma."

As she jogs back to her apartment at cool-down pace, Regina feels the corners of her lips turn upwards in a private little smile.

* * *

"The Agrabahn Viper?" Emma groans. "What the hell is that?"

"According to Google, it's an extremely venomous snake that originates in the Arabian Peninsula," Mills replies without looking up from her computer. "It's quite rare and quite deadly - its bite can kill almost instantly."

"I'm guessing that's not a variety of snake that might have crawled in from the garden?"

"Seems unlikely. And, in case you're wondering, I already asked: the Billings family did not keep an Agrabahn Viper, or any kind of snake, as a pet."

"I always wanted a pet snake," Emma remarks absently, remembering all the pets she's wanted but never had over the years. "But not one that would kill me instantly."

"A wise choice," Mills agrees. "Now, he was found dead in his living room, on the sofa-"

"_If_ his wife was telling the truth," Emma interrupts. She still doesn't trust the woman - there was something very off about her, even after only a few minutes of observation.

"If the wife was lying, then she's not the only one involved, because she's fit enough but she's too small to have carried him very far by herself, and the EMTs reported that he was on that sofa."

"She mentioned he had gotten a bunch of death-threats, right? Maybe we should check those out; I mean, I still think the wife is suspicious as hell, but-"

"But we should probably cover our all our bases instead of immediately accusing the grieving widow of murder? I concur."

The rest of the day is spent contacting the Senator's associates to gauge how many people might have wanted him dead (answer: very few) and locating breeders of rare snakes in the Greater Boston area to determine where the viper may have come from. It seems like they're hitting dead end after dead end, and Emma is starting to get frustrated, but Mills assures her this is perfectly normal.

Locksley comes out of his office in the early evening, looking exhausted and annoyed. "I just got a call from the governor, inquiring about our investigation on Senator Billings's death," he says with a loud groan. "Please tell me you at least have _something._"

"Well, we're pretty sure it wasn't politically based. Detective Swan, would you care to explain?"

"His office gave me copies of the death threats against him. There were only about three, and the last one was over six months ago."

"Which tells us...?" Mills coaxes.

"Well, it actually tells us very little, but it's unlikely that someone would have killed him for political reasons without mentioning it first. And it tells us that the wife lied, because she said he received death threats all the time."

Mills nods approvingly. "Detective Swan and I both suspect the wife is somehow involved, but we can't establish motive, or any solid evidence linking her to the snake."

"And there's no chance this rare viper somehow got loose from a zoo or something and got into the house on its own?" Locksley asks with a sigh.

"Seems highly unlikely, sir," Emma reports. "We contacted all the zoos and snake breeders within a twenty-mile radius, and no one's had an Agrabahn viper go missing."

"So, we still don't know where the snake came from, or where it is now," Mills adds with a shudder.

"Wonderful." Locksley sighs again. "Now I get to tell reporters that we not only have a murdered Senator, but a deadly snake possibly on the loose. And here I was hoping you were going to tell me his death was a freak accident and we could put this all behind us."

"Oh, so now you want to let a murderer run free because it's convenient for you?" Mills demands furiously, her good humor of just moments ago completely forgotten. Emma is confused - she doesn't remember him saying that at all. "Because it keeps the press off your back? You always said going brass wasn't going to change you, Robin. What happened?"

"I never said I wanted to let a murderer run free!" he exclaims. "Stop twisting my words. I can wish that the death was accidental even though I know it's not true!"

"Why would you waste time wishing for things you know you can't have?"

"What do you want me to say, Regina? That I'm glad a politician was probably murdered, potentially by his wife? That I enjoy being hounded by reporters twenty-four seven about things entirely outside of my control? Because I'm not."

"I don't want you to say anything! I want you to accept that you can't always fix things!"

Emma's eyes dart back and forth between Mills and Locksley, and she wonders if they're even talking about the case anymore.

Nolan clears his throat. "Hello, Mary Margaret," he says loudly to ADA Blanchard, who has just entered the squad room.

"David, Killian, Regina, Robin, hi," the new arrival says awkwardly. "Oh, and Emma! Nice to see you again."

"Hello, Miss Blanchard," Regina says calmly. "Lieutenant, have you finished venting your frustrations? Or were you unaware when you took this job that you might have less than enjoyable interactions with reporters?"

"I'll be in my office," the lieutenant says shortly. "Let me know if you get anything from Whale."

"David, are you ready to go over your testimony for the Harrison trial?" Blanchard asks.

"Yeah, let's get out of here," he says quickly, leading her into a conference room.

Jones smirks. "Testimony, my ass. All he has to say is that he found the gun in the Harrison's apartment and he had a legal search warrant. If they're still in there after five minutes, I'll bet twenty bucks that they're actually making out."

"You know, not everyone is as immature as you," Emma says tiredly. She sometimes wonders how the rum-swilling detective manages to hold down a job at all, especially one as demanding as theirs. "Some of us actually take our jobs and lives seriously."

"But I have more fun than them," Jones points out. "Look at Mills - she's probably going to drop dead of a heart attack before fifty."

"I assume you are aware of the fact that I can hear you?" asks the senior detective. "And that you're going to drop dead of liver cirrhosis by forty?"

Jones gives a good-natured shrug. "At least I'll die happy. Unlike you - you need to get out more. When's the last time you had some action?"

Mills's eyes darken and the glare she gives Jones makes Emma shiver in her seat. "Even if such a thing were any of your business, that is a wildly inappropriate question for the workplace, and I could very easily bring you up on harassment charges. Now, get back to work."

Jones shrugs again and turns back to his computer screen.

"What do we do now?" Emma asks quietly. "There's not much, is there?"

"No, there's not," Mills sighs. "Maybe...it's a long-shot, but let's try to see if there's anything on public record about him or his wife - disputes, domestic violence, tax problems, anything. We can't get a search warrant without more evidence or at least a motive."

"Right."

An hour later, their searches come back fruitless. The Senator and his wife are model citizens; neither one has so much as a parking ticket. "This is absurd," Emma mutters. "This couple is too good to be true. Did you find anything?"

"Senator and Mrs. Billings give generously to several charitable organizations and volunteer at soup kitchens in their spare time," Mills reads in a monotone. "This has been a waste of time, and I'm sorry for suggesting it. Let's call it a night."

Emma quickly checks her watch: it's already almost nine. She can't believe they're working such long hours already, but it's hard to imagine going home without any solid leads on the dead Senator and the lieutenant on the warpath. "Is Locksley going to be pissed?" she asks hesitantly.

"He's already angry at the world, but he's always been big on people getting enough sleep. He'll probably leave soon himself - he likes to get home in time to tuck his son in," Mills explains. Emma feels the sharp sting of jealousy in her gut; she wants to tuck her son into bed at night. _One more week_, she reminds herself.

"Hey, Mary Margaret and I were going to head to the Lion Flower for dinner and a drink, if you guys want to join," Nolan offers.

Jones excitedly claps a hand on his partner's back. "Alright, mate! You finally asked her out!"

"It's not a date," mumbles Nolan. "Just a friendly dinner between coworkers, or I wouldn't have asked you to join."

"Just a tip," Emma says jokingly, "if you _are_ going to take a woman out, you should probably pick somewhere a little nicer than that dirty bar."

"What's wrong with the Lion Flower?" Jones asks - Emma can't tell whether his offense is real or fake.

"Nothing is wrong with the Lion Flower," she quickly placates him. "It's just...most ladies, when picturing their ideal romantic evening, aren't picturing a dive bar full of cops where their only menu choices are a cheeseburger or bacon cheeseburger."

"There are also chicken wings!"

"There's also a reason you're still single."

"Then why don't you help me fix that? Let me take you to dinner tonight, somewhere you like, and you can show me what a lady pictures as her 'ideal romantic evening.'"

Emma laughs and rolls her eyes. "Okay, first of all, my ideal romantic evening doesn't include you, so there's that problem. But I will go to the bar with you guys because I'm starving and a burger sounds awesome right about now. Just let me finish up this stuff on the computer, and I'll be right there."

"Great, it can be a double date!"

"It's not a date," Emma and Nolan growl at the same time.

* * *

Regina watches the interaction between her partner and Detective Jones with narrowed eyes, unable to shake uneasy feeling she has about the situation. Of course, she's known Jones for a long time now, and inappropriate flirting is just what he does. But is Emma flirting back?

She knows the thought shouldn't bother her the way it does; a little bit of flirting doesn't mean that Emma is going to make the same mistakes she did. It's probably nothing. She's freaking out over nothing and Emma will be fine.

She's not going to say anything.

"Be careful who you get into bed with, Detective Swan," she says, completely emotionlessly and without looking up from her computer screen. There's her mouth refusing to do what her brain tells it, yet again.

"Excuse me?"

The younger detective sounds pissed, which Regina supposes she understands, because if there's one thing she's noticed successful female cops have in common, it's a strong aversion to being told what to do, and she, herself, would never accepted taken such a suggestion kindly.

"Just some friendly advice," she clarifies. "Ignore it, if you want." _At your own peril, _she adds internally.

"I'm not getting into bed with anyone," her partner snaps.

"I'm not judging you," Regina explains quickly. "Trust me, I know how it gets. This job is tough, it's isolating, and sometimes you have to let off some steam, and it's easier to do that with someone you know and trust instead of some stranger you met in a bar. It's just-"

"So, what?" demands Emma. "You think I want to 'let off some steam' with Detective Jones?"

"I wouldn't claim to know what _you _want, but I know him. And I'm not going to tell you what to do, I'm just suggesting that you think carefully about the possible repercussions of any decisions you make, preferably before the clothes come off."

"I know all about repercussions from casual sex, and I don't get involved with coworkers."

Regina sighs. This is going about as well as she should have expected.

"Well, then," she says, trying her best to keep her voice detached, "it seems you're more intelligent than about ninety percent of our department, and I'll avoid giving you any further unsolicited advice."

Her partner's face softens slightly. "Look, it's not that I don't appreciate your advice," she backtracks. "Really, I admire you and your work, and I've always wanted to learn from you. It's just...I'm almost thirty. I have a kid. I can manage my own personal life."

"Of course," Regina murmurs, running one hand exhaustedly through her hair. Why the hell did she think this conversation was a good idea to begin with? She doesn't even remember; all she knows is that the thought of Emma Swan and Killian Jones together in any way makes her sick to her stomach.

She knows it's not fair. She knows that she has no right to any opinion on the matter, that Emma is an adult perfectly capable of making her own decisions, that she doesn't need someone to protect her from the consequences of her actions, and even if she did, it wouldn't be Regina's place to do so. God, she needs to get some sleep. Her head feels like it's about to split in two.

"Hey, do you want to come?" Emma suddenly asks.

"Come to the bar?" Regina is shocked - she hasn't been explicitly invited anywhere since she and Locksley stopped being friends. "I don't think so."

"Not a huge fan of cheap beer and greasy burgers?" the blonde asks jokingly.

"I do enjoy the occasional beer and burger binge," Regina admits, "but I'm not a fan of keeping unnecessary company with idiots, especially when I already have a headache."

"Hey, now," Detective Swan protests, hands on her hips in feigned annoyance. "I resemble that remark."

"Not you, dear," Regina quickly corrects, gesturing carelessly at Jones and Nolan, who are pretending to duel with their pencils on the other side of the room while waiting for Swan to join them.

Emma hides a snicker behind one hand. "Right. Well, goodnight, Detective Mills."

"Regina."

"Pardon?"

"If I'm supposed to call you Emma, then you can probably call me by my first name, too. Just...don't let anyone hear you. I wouldn't want to encourage excessive familiarity - I do have a reputation to uphold."

"Of course," Emma says with a warm smile. "Goodnight, Regina. See you bright and early tomorrow morning?"

"See to it that you're ready to go; I won't wait for you. And goodnight, Emma," she adds softly.

Swan follows the two dimwits out of the squad room with a friendly wave, and Regina glances to her right to see Locksley raising one eyebrow at her, his expression inscrutable. She flashes him her best glare before shutting down her computer and stalking out the door without a farewell.

She's been on her couch for an hour, nursing her second whiskey and mindlessly watching _Friends_ reruns, when her phone buzzes with a text from her partner.

She squints to see the small picture - an old and matted teddy bear resting on top of a checkered pillowcase - and read the message accompanying it: _Tonight's bedmate - I hope you approve._

Maybe it's because she's been drinking and maybe it's because she's just so tired she finds almost anything amusing, but Regina feels a loud, genuine laugh erupt from the pit of her stomach. For the first time in ages, she falls asleep with a smile on her face. Unfortunately, her dreams don't let her keep it there for long.

* * *

_Regina is curled on the couch in the break room, unable to bear the thought of opening the door to her dark apartment. Eight years. It was eight years ago today, but sometimes it feels like only five minutes ago. She's half-asleep, one hand resting protectively across her abdomen, though there's nothing in there worth protecting anymore - White made sure of that. Still, if she imagines hard enough, she can still feel the tiny flutters in her belly and Daniel's strong but gentle arms wrapped around her._

_But if she imagines too hard, she feels the cool metal knife against her throat and the warm blood spilling out of both their bodies as his turns cold against hers, and she can hear the sound of her gun going off and her screams fading into silence as the world slowly goes black._

_"You sleeping here tonight?" a voice asks from the doorway. Her heart nearly stops beating for a moment as she jumps up, reaching for her gun. Then the light flickers on, and it's Locksley._

_It's just Locksley._

_"I could have shot you," she angrily scolds her partner. "You shouldn't sneak up on people like that!"_

_"I'm sorry," he says sincerely, with the same sad puppy expression that's been on his face since his wife died. "I didn't think."_

_"You never do, dear. And yes, I am sleeping here. What are you doing?"_

_"Roland is at Marian's parents' house tonight," he explains. "I've been putting off going home - the house is just too quiet without him. It gets lonely."_

_Lonely. Regina understands. She knows the feeling well. _

_"Want to sit and talk?" she offers, beckoning him to join her on the couch. "I doubt I'll be falling asleep anytime soon."_

_Robin nods gratefully. "Nightmares?" he asks, sitting down gently beside her._

_She sighs. "Always." He's one of the few people who knows. They've been partners for eight years, since she got back from her medical leave, and friends for even longer. They were an inseparable foursome in their early days at the academy: Robin and Marian and Daniel and Regina. She's spent many a night over the years fighting her nightmares on the Locksleys' guest bed. He knows everything. He knows far too much._

_"He's locked up, remember? You put him there. He can't hurt you anymore."_

_"I know," she whispers, but it's not true. It's not even remotely true because even if White isn't actively hurting her right now, he took away everything that mattered to her, and it hurts every second of every day. And he knows that, too, and he knows his words won't placate her, but he says them anyway because he has this insatiable need to fix everything and make her better, and sometimes she likes to pretend it's working. She's not sure whether it's for his benefit or her own._

_"It doesn't go away, does it?" he asks. "The pain, I mean?" His eyes have a far-off quality about them and she knows he's thinking about Marian. He's always thinking about Marian; hell, _Regina_ sometimes thinks about Marian, and how cruel and ironic it is that a woman who spent over a decade putting her life on the line every single day to bust drug dealers was taken out of the world by a car crash on her way to the supermarket a mile from her house. How tragic it is that little Roland lost his mother before he was even old enough to form solid memories of her. That Robin lost the love of his life just as she did. That she lost one of her two friends._

_"The pain fades, somewhat, but the loneliness...the loneliness only gets worse," she admits, telling him the truth because she cares for him too much to let him waste time and energy on false hope, and because they're partners and they have each other's backs, and she trusts him with her whole soul as he does her._

_And right now, her soul feels empty and hollow, and there's a dull ache in her chest where maybe her heart should be, but she doesn't even remember anymore how she's supposed to feel because the loneliness has taken over every other emotion._

_Robin leans in and wraps an arm around her shoulders, and she tenses at first because there's something that feels so very wrong about it, but there's also something that feels strangely, unbelievably _right_, and she feels herself leaning into him and resting her head against his chest._

_"We make quite the pair," he jokes, and for some reason her body is reacting before her mind does, and she's kissing him. He pulls away for a moment, looking shocked, and then suddenly he's kissing her back, and she has him practically pinned against the sofa and his arms are around her and she doesn't even know what's happening._

_She hasn't been kissed, not since Daniel. She hasn't been held like this since Daniel, either. But it's not like Daniel, she thinks. This isn't love. This is - well, she doesn't know what it is, but she knows that it's something she needs, desperately, and she thinks he needs it, too._

_He moans beneath her, and his mouth pulls away from hers, and a shiver runs through her body as she feels his calloused fingers brush against her skin, unbuttoning her pants and sliding them gently over her hips, and her hands are doing the same to his. She laughs as their limbs get tangled up in all the clothes they're rushing to take off, and the sound feels foreign coming from her throat._

_He hesitates at the buttons of her shirt. "Is this okay?" he rasps._

_"Yeah." The word comes out of her mouth unbidden, before she even has time to think, and it's more like a sudden exhalation than a word at all. She hasn't let anyone see her shirtless in seven years - hasn't let anyone see the scars from White's attempt to cut her unborn child out of her womb. There's part of her that wants to take it back, but a much bigger part that says she's been so lonely for so long and if she's going to let someone in, she might as well let them all the way in. "Let's take it off."_

_Without further delay, they are both divested of their remaining clothing, and Regina is the one with her back against the couch cushions. Robin is leaning over her, straddling her hips, and her breath catches in her throat as he hovers a finger over the thick, raised white lines that crisscross her stomach._

_"Would it make you uncomfortable if I-"_

_"Yes."_

_"Okay, then I won't," he says quietly, raising his hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear instead. "Regina, are we really doing this?"_

_"It appears that we are," she says breathlessly, pulling him down by the shoulders into another kiss, and somewhere in the back of her mind where she keeps rational thoughts instead of hormones and loneliness, she thinks that maybe this is a terrible idea; at best, she'll never be able to sit on this couch again, and at worst, well..._

_But then _he _pulls away._

_Regina blinks rapidly in utter confusion and reaches down to cover herself with her hands as much as she can. The first thought to cross her mind is that he was so disgusted by her scars that he doesn't want her anymore, but a quick look down confirms that's not the problem. Then she thinks of Marian and how she's only been gone for eleven months. If he thinks this - whatever it is - is disrespecting his wife's memory, then she supposes her brain understands even if the wetness between her legs doesn't. She knows Marian, and she knows Marian wouldn't have minded, but it's been less than a year, so she understands._

_"Regina, there's something I haven't told you," he says hesitantly. "It's...I don't feel comfortable doing this is if you don't know."_

_"Okay, then tell me," she demands, pulling herself into a sitting position and draping his discarded shirt over her midsection. "What is it? You don't have herpes or something, do you?"_

_"What? No, nothing like that. It's just - I put in papers for a promotion. I need to do something more regular. For Roland, you know. Ride a desk or something."_

_"Oh." She blinks again, wondering if she missed something."That's all?"_

_"I got it."_

_"Oh...I - that's great, Robin. Congratulations," she says sincerely. If she's honest with herself, it hurts like hell that he's being promoted when she's been passed up several times (but the brass has always hated her, so it's no surprise), and that she won't have her partner of seven years anymore, but she really is happy for him. And she still doesn't see what the problem is._

_"They're making me a lieutenant," he continues. "I'm taking Midas's job in two weeks when he retires."_

_"You're...Midas..." the thoughts all suddenly piece together in her mind and a cry of shock comes from deep in her chest before she can hold it in. He's not _just _getting promoted; he's going to be her boss. She feels like she's been punched in the gut - no, stabbed, and she knows what that feels like - and her clothes can't get back on her body fast enough. "Get out," she hisses._

_"Regina, I'm-"_

_"Get away from me!" she practically yells, fumbling desperately with the zipper on her pants. Her underwear has somehow disappeared, and she knows she needs to find it before someone else does tomorrow morning, but she doesn't have the presence of mind to look and her vision is clouded with red, anyway. "I can't see you right now!"_

_"Okay, okay," he says, terrified, raising a hand in conciliation like she's a wild dog preparing to attack him, which she supposes is how she probably seems right now. "I'm sorry, Regina. I should've-"_

_"This never happened," she growls, getting right up in his face. "Do you understand me? Tonight didn't happen. You will wipe it from your memory and tell no one."_

_"Regina," he says desperately, "it doesn't change how I-"_

_"Don't," she snaps, pulling on her shirt inside-out and storming from the room. "And don't be here when I come back."_

_She can barely see in front of her and she certainly isn't thinking straight, but somehow her feet lead her to the women's locker room in the basement gym, and she rips her clothes off for the second time that night before turning on the shower at full blast._

_As the scalding hot droplets pelt her body, she collapses against the wall and allows the sobs she's been holding back to finally escape, and she's shaking and her chest is heaving with anger and embarrassment, and she beats her fists repeatedly against steamy tile and screams because she hates him and she hates herself and she doesn't even understand what's happening to her mind and body and soul except that it hurts. It's a sharp, searing pain that feels like it's about to rip her in two, and it's so overwhelming that she can't even stay upright anymore. Her knees buckle and she sinks down into the fetal position._

_She's not sure how long she lies there, crying on the grimy, disgusting floor, but the water raining down on her gradually grows colder, and the red-hot rage filling her body is slowly overtaken by an a dark, icy pit of loneliness, and the only feeling remaining is the dull ache in her hands from their contact with the shower wall, but at least she's feeling something. She finally gets up and laces her sneakers while it's still dark outside - she's pretty sure she runs close to eighteen miles before the sun even comes up._

_In the morning, Robin brings her coffee and carefully doesn't comment on her bruised fingers or the dark circles under her eyes, and she pretends not to notice that he's hungover and hasn't showered, and they both start the process of trying to forget the night they each lost their best friend for the second time._


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N**: Hello, dear readers, I have a question for you. I had originally planned for the chapters of this story to be between 4-6k words, but the last two have been getting significantly longer. (Ch3 was ~8k, and this one is pushing 10k.) I was wondering if people prefer longer chapters, or if you'd feel better about shorter ones. It doesn't make a difference one way or the other to my writing process to split the chapters up, so let me know if you have strong feelings one way or the other. If no one cares, I'll just keep posting them at whatever length they turn out to be.

Thank you again for all of your feedback!

**Trigger Warning **for attempted suicide in the second flashback scene (again, all it's all in italics - you can't miss it). If you want to skip that, you won't miss too much that's relevant to the real-time plot.

On perhaps a milder scale, there is drunkenness in the first scene, and the first flashback contains a reference to the same attack as the flashback in the previous chapter. Also, some anti-Arab racism from the Senator's widow. I think that just about covers it.

* * *

The Lion Flower grows less and less interesting with repeated visits, Emma determines as she absentmindedly swirls a French fry in the giant pool of ketchup on her plate. She's already won at pool, lost miserably at darts, and tried all three of the burger variations (bacon cheese is the best by far). And now, she's beyond bored watching David and Killian's drunken attempts at flirtation.

"How are you liking the transfer to homicide so far?" ADA Blanchard asks her, pretending to listen to a slightly tipsy David's rendition of the Foundations' "Baby, Now That I've Found You."

"Oh, you know, it's-"

"Are you ladies ready to experience your ideal romantic evening?" Killian slurs, already much deeper into the rum than any of his drinking companions, "because Swan says-"

Red-faced, David wrestles his partner out of the way. "Excuse him," he says authoritatively. "Take your time eating - Killian is just a little excited for our first weekend in a month not being on call."

"A month?" Emma exclaims. "How'd you get stuck with that?"

"Locksley seems to think that free time isn't our friend," Nolan grumbles.

Mary Margaret smirks and takes a small, dignified sip of her drink. "Wonder why?" she jokes, gesturing to his partner, who is practically climbing onto the bar.

"Come on, mate, you're still too tense. A little more liquid courage to woo your lady friend." Jones wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at David. "Another round of your finest rum, good sir!" he calls to the amused bartender.

"No, I'm cutting both of you off," says Mary Margaret. "Or you're going to spend your hard-earned weekend off with splitting headaches."

Emma laughs when both men flash the ADA their best puppy-dog eyes like a couple of scolded children. "I might actually bow out early," she says, checking her watch. "Unlike you, I _am_ on call this weekend because of the Senator case, and I've got to get up at the crack of dawn to go running with Regina." This is her chance to really get to know one of her heroes, perhaps even become her friend. She doesn't want to screw it up.

At the mention of her partner's name, Mary Margaret almost spits out her drink, and both of the male detectives instantly sober.

"Regina?" the ADA asks, voice squeaking. "As in, Detective Mills?"

Emma chuckles. "The one and only," she says proudly. She'd be lying if she said she didn't enjoy holding the distinction of being the only coworker the senior detective actually likes.

"You're going running with the Evil Queen?" demands Killian. "I need more rum."

"The Evil Queen?" Emma asks, cocking her head in confusion. "I haven't heard that one before."

"We were going to save it for when you were a bit less impressionable," David explains. He glares at his partner, and Killian shrugs and takes a swig of his newly refreshed drink.

"She's a bit of a hardass," the rookie detective agrees reluctantly, "but evil seems like a stretch."

"It's sexism, pure and simple," Mary Margaret declares. "Women in positions of authority are held to a different standard than men. That said, Detective Mills is...well, she's a bit special."

"She's no fun," Killian whines. "And neither are you. Come on, Swan, one dance before you go?" He grabs Emma's hand and attempts to twirl her around, but ends up crashing into a barstool and spilling his drink.

"I don't dance," Emma says, laughing. "And apparently, you don't, either. Might want a little more practice before you try to woo the ladies, mate."

"Yes," agrees Mary Margaret with a mischievous grin. "I'm sure David could use the practice as well, for our next 'double date.'"

"The lady has spoken!" Killian cries. "Come on, mate!" He drags a sputtering Detective Nolan onto the dance floor, tripping over various other patrons' feet and generally making a scene.

Mary Margaret snickers and pulls out her phone. "I'll send you the video," she promises. "Now, go get some sleep so you can keep up with Her Majesty tomorrow."

"You sure you've got this?" Emma asks guiltily, gesturing to their clumsy, inebriated companions on the dance floor. She doesn't want to leave Mary Margaret alone to manage the behavior to two drunk dudes on her own, but she does have to go.

"I've got this," Mary Margaret reiterates, pressing the record button as Killian starts pulling David onto a table, both men belting out the first verse of "Don't Stop Believing." "And soon, a lot of other people will have it, too," she cackles.

* * *

Emma takes great pride in the fact that she's ready and waiting, stretching off to the side of the trail, when Regina arrives for their run. She's not sure she's ever woken up this early on a Saturday before, at least not since Henry was a toddler. "Good morning, running buddy!" she says brightly.

Her partner grunts incoherently at her.

"Not much of a morning person?" she guesses. Another grunt. "Not a people person?"

"Let's just run, Detective Swan," Regina snaps.

Emma's brow furrows in confusion. "We're back to Detective Swan now?" she asks, mostly to herself. She wonders what the hell she did to bring on this abrupt change in attitude - she remembers them parting on fairly good terms the night before. But she's afraid to ask, and Regina - Detective Mills? - is already running, so she just shrugs and follows.

The first four miles pass silently and pleasantly enough, except for the turmoil in her head about why her partner suddenly hates her. They fall into a comfortable rhythm together; Emma is able to match Regina's pace with a slightly longer but slower stride.

It's all going well until she develops a cramp in her right calf that starts off fairly innocently but quickly turns into something more painful, and she grits her teeth and tries to push through it because the last thing she wants to do is piss off an already pissy Regina Mills, but the older detective seems to immediately sense that something is off.

"Leg pain?" she asks, slowing her stride slightly so she can turn her head back towards her partner.

"Yeah, just a cramp. Don't worry about it," Emma groans, limping slowly forward.

"Let's get off the trail," Regina suggests. "You can stretch it out. Walk it off and take a lot of deep breaths. Day two of getting back in shape is always the hardest."

Emma winces as she tries to loosen the muscle. "You can just go on without me. I don't want to ruin your run," she says sadly.

Regina doesn't respond. Instead, she coaches Emma to rotate her ankle in small circles. "If that doesn't work, you can try massaging it. I find the knuckles work very well for such purposes."

"Do you have a lot of experience with this?" Emma asks, gasping in pain.

"I've been running for over twenty-five years," Regina points out. "Here, let me help." She kneels on the ground next to Emma and starts massaging her leg. "It hurts around here, right?" Emma responds with a loud yelp as her partner's knuckles find the precise location of the cramp.

_Is this weird? _she thinks to herself, watching the older woman in confusion. But she shrugs and decides not to question it, because her calf is starting to loosen.

"Thanks," she says breathlessly. "I think I'm all better now."

"I've been told I have magic fingers," Regina chuckles. "Are you ready to resume our run?"

"Yeah, sorry about that little distraction," Emma apologizes, once again falling into step behind Regina. She can't help but notice that the brunette has adopted a slightly more relaxed pace, no doubt for her benefit, and she feels a small pang of guilt.

"Nonsense, dear. I agreed to train with you, knowing full well that you were less experienced. I can hardly blame you for slowing me down a little."

The two women jog for a few minutes in silence before Regina turns her head to address her new running buddy again.

"Emma, I'm sorry," she says abruptly. "For earlier. I shouldn't have been so rude."

"Oh, don't worry about it," Emma replies, slightly surprised and grateful that she hadn't done something to upset the other woman and bring out her "Evil Queen" persona. "I...um...most people aren't their best at five in the morning. No hard feelings."

"Thank you. I didn't exactly sleep well last night, and I normally need a few miles to clear my head."

Emma cocks her head to the side, shocked by her normally aloof partner's admission. "Totally understandable," she says quickly. "You know, it _is _Saturday. We could have slept in for a few more hours if you had a rough night."

"Yes, we could have," Regina admits, "but I enjoy seeing the sunrise."

She turns her head back around and quickens the pace again. Emma hums in confusion and picks up her feet, determined to keep up.

* * *

_"Well, Regina, your scar tissue is healing quite nicely," the doctor says, his voice loud and falsely pleasant as he carefully avoids meeting her gaze. "You're making much faster progress than expected, given the nature of the wound."_

_Regina grunts noncommittally. She can't remember the last time someone looked her in the eye; even her parents can't do it. They're afraid of what they might see if they look too closely: pain, emptiness, desolation._

_Or the worst of all: nothing._

_Not that she cares. She doesn't want to see their pity._

_"So, what does that mean for her activities?" Robin asks. He and Marian have insisted on accompanying her to all of her rehab appointments, to "make sure she's following doctor's orders." She'd like to punch both of them in their throats, but all she has the motivation to do these days is lie on the Locksleys' couch and count cracks in the ceiling. There's really very little danger of overexertion._

_"You are free to increase the intensity and duration of your physical activity, as long as you don't feel any pain." Her doctor may be awkward, but at least he always makes sure to address _her_. "I know you'll want to get back into shape for work, but I'd suggest something a bit lower impact to start out with; perhaps swimming or cycling instead of running?"_

_"And if she insists on running?" Marian asks. Regina makes a face at the woman, knowing that it won't be noticed - both she and Robin have awkwardly averted their eyes from the patient they're discussing._

_"You can try running short distances if that's what you want," Dr. Sims says hesitantly. "Just...stop if you're feeling acute abdominal pains, okay?"_

_"Of course," Regina grumbles and shoots the meddling Locksleys a glare. Whatever intervention they're planning, she has no intention of performing any physical activity, and she doesn't speak to either of them for the rest of the day._

_She doesn't think about running at all until late in the night - or early in the morning, depending on who's talking. White is leaning, leering, over her, the knife in his hand glittering in the moonlight. Her gun is on the bedside table, but she doesn't reach for it - why the hell didn't she reach for it sooner? - the only thought in her panicked and exhausted mind is to shield her baby. Her throat is hoarse from screaming as she clutches Daniel, his eyes blank and unseeing as his blood gushes all over the bed, and suddenly, there's a hand on her shoulder, shaking her awake._

_She comes to with a start, and stares angrily into Robin's concerned eyes._

_"Regina, are you alright?"_

_She refuses to acknowledge him with a reply. Her heart is still pumping too quickly for rational conversation. She knows what comes next in her dream; it may be a memory but the adrenaline coursing through her veins is very real and very present._

_"We're about to leave for our morning run. Join us?" Marian offers._

_Regina wants to protest that she has no interest in moving her somehow still sore body and even less in third-wheeling on the couple's ridiculous activities, but before she even knows what's happening, Robin is shoving a pair of sneakers in her face._

_"Doc cleared you," he says with an infuriating grin. "You want to keep sleeping at our place, you gotta embrace the lifestyle."_

_Her mind is screaming that she doesn't _want_ to sleep at their place - she never wanted any of this - but her body is giving into routine, and she puts the sneakers on her feet and silently, numbly follows the pair of morons out the door and down to the river._

_For the first five minutes of brisk jogging, she almost wants to thank them. The jolting sensation of feet pounding against pavement rejuvenates her, so familiar and yet so foreign after months of convalescence. She's almost fallen into a comfortable rhythm - perhaps a bit slower than Robin and Marian's warm-up pace, but perfect for purging the shadows from her brain and connecting to her body again - when she feels an sharp, searing pain in her abdomen._

_Doubled over and panting, she tries to grit through the pain, but the imbeciles immediately notice and stop running._

_"Pain already?" Robin asks._

_"Apparently, taking a knife to the uterus can cause lasting damage," Regina hisses through clenched teeth. "Who knew?"_

_"Do you need to stop?" Marian asks, placing a soft hand on her shoulder which Regina forcefully shrugs off. It's bad enough that all the other runners and cyclists on the trail are rubbernecking as they pass by, she doesn't need her supposed friend's pity on top of that._

_"I'm fine; you go ahead," she mutters. She hobbles off the trail and tries to get her breathing back under control as the world swims before her burning eyes. Once the Locksleys have disappeared around the bend, too far off to cast any more worried glances her way, she allows herself to sink to the ground on her knees, arms wrapped tightly around her throbbing midsection. She can feel the rough lines of scarring through her shirt, the tissue raised and still slightly pink and enflamed. It's odd that it's so warm when the rest of her is cold. Cold like Daniel and the baby who would have been due - she checks her watch - today._

_She swallows hard and presses her eyelids together to keep the tears at bay._

_God, it hurts. Everything hurts._

_She wants Daniel._

_She wants Daniel to wake her with sweet kisses on her forehead and tell her this was all a horrible dream and it's time to get up and paint the baby's room._

_Instead, she opens her eyes and she's kneeling on the grass next to the Charles River, a jagged scar across her stomach the only reminder that there was ever a baby at all._

_"Hey, do you need a hand getting up?" a voice asks from above her head._

_She allows whomever it is - she doesn't even look up to see the face - to help pull her to her feet and stumbles wordlessly back to the trail to continue her "run." She imagines she must resemble Quasimodo because she's still bent nearly in two, hands pressed against her stomach like her insides will fall out if she lets go._

_Slowly shuffling her feet, she starts inching her body down the trail at a pace most octogenarians would feel comfortable with, but it feels good to be moving again. Well, not exactly _good_ - better, at least. Forward motion. Daniel would want her to keep running, she thinks. Through the tears streaming freely down her face, she catches a glimpse of the first pink rays of dawn emerging over the river and takes another shaky step forward._

* * *

Both Regina and Emma are in good spirits after their morning run, but their mutual endorphin highs are brought to a premature end as they enter the squad room. Locksley is there to meet them, wearing a suit and a grim expression.

"Mrs. Billings is in my office," he says quietly, "and I'll expect you two there in five."

"What's that about?" Emma asks her partner in a whisper as soon as the lieutenant's back is turned. "Did we do something wrong?"

Regina shrugs. "We don't have any leads. Whether or not that's our fault, well...that remains to be determined."

"So she's pissed."

"You probably would be, too, if your husband was murdered and the cops couldn't figure out who did it," Regina points out. _Or, at least, that's how you would act if you wanted the cops to believe you had nothing to do with it_, she thinks, but she avoids speaking the thoughts out loud with the widow in the next room.

"But we think-"

Regina quickly shushes her partner. "Yes, we do," she whispers. "But we have no evidence, and we can't let her know our suspicions or she'll be able to cover her tracks. We have to lull her into a false sense of security. Are you ready to go?"

Emma straightens her shoulders and smooths her slightly wrinkled blazer. "Yeah, sure," she says hesitantly. Regina has to work very hard to resist the urge to give the younger detective a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

Mrs. Billings greets them coldly when they enter Locksley's office. "Detectives, you lieutenant has led me to believe that you have made no progress in finding my husband's killer. Please tell me he is mistaken." Beside her, Locksley looks apologetic, and Regina fights to suppress the glare she'd like to send his way.

"Mrs. Billings, I assure you that we are working tirelessly to find your husband's killer," she confidently tells the widow, "but these things take time."

"So you've made no progress."

"As I'm sure our lieutenant has informed you, we have determined the manner of your husband's death, but due to somewhat...strange circumstances, we have been unable to narrow down any suspects."

"Tell me," demands the incredibly forceful woman. "Perhaps I can help."

Emma cocks her head towards Locksley, who nods as if to grant permission. "He died from a snakebite. We're very sorry."

Mrs. Billings narrows her eyes. "A snakebite? So the murderer is a snake?"

"Unfortunately, this was not an accidental death. The bite was from a very rare and tightly controlled snake that couldn't have gotten into your house on its own. We've had Animal Control searching your property, so you don't accidentally suffer the same fate when you return home."

Emma watches the widow's face carefully. She seems slightly shaken upon learning the cause of death, but the young detective can't figure out if that's something that should be arousing her suspicions.

But what she says next definitely is.

"It was obviously an Arab terrorist organization! Where else would they have gotten the snake?"

"We didn't-" she starts to say, but Regina shushes her with a swift elbow to the chest.

"You mentioned that your husband received some death threats from terrorist groups," the senior detective says evenly. "Could you tell us more about those? Did you say they were Middle Eastern?"

"Of course they were." She launches into a rant about how her husband had made some off-the-cuff remarks about the 9-11 Memorial in New York and 'hate mail' from Muslim groups immediately started pouring in. Emma isn't really listening. She's already made up her mind about this woman.

"Here's the thing," she says, "we didn't find any of those threats. His office didn't have a record of them. Without physical evidence, we don't have any leads, and we can't use that in court."

"Right," Regina adds, "so it would be extremely helpful if you happened to keep any of these notes, or at least made copies of them, so we can track the senders."

Mrs. Billings looks highly offended, even enraged, at the suggestion. "You don't believe me, do you? You're on their side. This is why the terrorists are winning!" With that, she storms out of the office, slamming the door behind her.

Locksley raises an eyebrow. "Is it just me, or is she a little..."

"Crazy? Racist? Obviously suspicious?" Emma suggests.

"Yes on all three. Please tell me she has an alibi, and that we didn't accidentally leak the Agrabahn viper detail to the press."

"We didn't?" Emma asks, shocked. "I mean, I understand why we want to keep that under wraps, but shouldn't the public be warned that there's such a deadly snake on the loose?"

Locksley shakes his head. "We're thinking that whoever did this was targeting the Senator specifically, and they're probably experienced with snakes to have gotten their hands on one so rare. There's been no sign of it near the Billingses' neighborhood, so my guess is that whoever let it loose already packed it up."

"The wife is clean," Regina says with a sigh, "but we're still investigating her."

"See that you do," Locksley orders. "And look into all of her associates as well. I want no detail of this woman's life unturned, but try to keep it under the radar. We don't want to be seen as persecuting a grieving widow before we have legitimate evidence."

* * *

"We've got an anonymous tip," Emma remarks, eyebrows raised in surprise. "I thought that stuff only happened on TV."

"Oh, it happens, but it has a tendency to make our lives more difficult when we have to bring it to court," Regina grumbles. "What have we got?"

"Photos of the Senator's wife with this guy," says the rookie detective, jabbing her finger at a grainy, black and white photograph of Mrs. Billings leaving a five-star restaurant with a well-dressed man. He's tall and appears to have dark hair, but that's all she can deduce from the picture. He could be anyone, but probably not her husband: he was short and prematurely graying.

"Do we have any leads on 'this guy's' identity?"

"Locksley just met with a few of the senator's family members and showed them the photo. They seem to think it's their estate lawyer."

"Oh," Regina mumbles, dismayed. She was hoping for something interesting, at the very least. "Every wealthy family has an estate attorney, or several. Fancy dinners are just part of the act."

"And you know this how?" demands Emma, a playful smirk softening the harsh tone of her voice. "Are you secretly loaded? Do _you _have an 'attorney?' Are you just working here for fun?"

"I do not," Regina says with an exaggerated eye-roll. "But my mother does, so I know the routine."

Emma shoves the picture in her face again and asks, "Yeah, well, does your mother dress like _that_ to meet her fancy estate attorney?"

Regina squints at the photo, holding it closer to her eyes so she can see Mrs. Billings's dress. Even through the blur, her cleavage is quite visible. She slowly shakes her head.

"Thought not."

"I suppose it's worth looking into," she reluctantly allows. She's not particularly interested in pursuing another round of dead ends when they've made no progress on the case, but they have to do _something,_ and she'd prefer it be away from the station. Nolan and Jones are about to return, and she'd rather have her toenails pulled out one-by-one than listen to those morons all afternoon, especially if Jones plans to continue his childish flirtations with her partner. "Is there even a date on that photograph?"

"Nope - taken on someone's crappy cell phone camera, printed without a timestamp."

"Wonderful," Regina groans. "Does this sharply-dressed lawyer at least have a name?"

"Yup, Sidney Glass."

They're in the car on the way to his address when Emma asks, "So your mom has an estate attorney, huh? That means you're filthy rich, right?"

"I'm not comfortable having this conversation," Regina says curtly, eyes fixed on the road. "But, yes, I guess you could say that my parents did quite well for themselves."

Emma is typing onto her phone screen, and Regina has the sinking feeling that she's being Googled. She sighs heavily and glances at her GPS, irritated by the traffic on Commonwealth Ave - still thick and it's already past noon. What should have been a fifteen minute drive is probably going to take thirty

Emma gasps. "Damn, your mother is Cora Mills? _That_ Cora Mills? How did I not know that?"

"Perhaps because prior to this afternoon, you were not a stalker."

"I'm sorry?" Emma says quizzically. She seems to have realized that she's steered them into a difficult territory. "I'll put the phone away, okay? Why are you so uncomfortable about having money? If _my_ mother was the CEO of Mills Financial, I'd be flaunting it. I also wouldn't be a cop - why are you a cop, anyway?"

Regina lets out a groan and clenches her jaw. "I wanted my own life, and a car with a siren," she mutters. "What about you?"

"I just thought the uniforms were sexy," Emma says lightly, and Regina can't stop a small chuckle from escaping.

"But now you're not wearing a uniform anymore," she points out.

"I know! And you won't let me wear my jacket! I have to say, I've been feeling very uncomfortable in my work clothes, lately."

"That jacket is completely unprofessional," Regina mutters.

"I guess you would know, huh? So, really, why are you so uncomfortable talking about your money? Your mom is super-successful - what's there to be ashamed of?"

Regina wishes she could close her eyes, but she has to keep them on the road. She hates this conversation, every incarnation of this conversation.

"Because," she snaps, "whenever it comes up, people start asking why I'm a cop, like this job is a step down in life. I don't understand why it's so hard to believe that I would choose work that I found interesting or fulfilling just like anyone else, and I shouldn't have to justify my decisions. You're a cop - why do you _think _I do this job?" Emma looks taken aback and a little bit terrified, and Regina realizes too late that she's now yelling.

"I...um...I get it. I think," Emma mumbles. "I didn't mean to come across as-"

"I know," Regina says in a slightly softer tone. "And I shouldn't have snapped, but this job is _everything_ to me, and-"

"Yeah, it's a sensitive topic. As I said, I get it. I know how it feels to have people questioning your life decisions constantly - it was none of my business."

Regina exhales. "Yes, I suppose you do," she muses, remembering Emma's comments about being a teenage mother. She imagines her partner has faced a lot of difficulty in her past that she hasn't been completely open about. She's surprised to find herself hoping that someday Emma will share all of it with her.

"Anyway, I think we're here," Emma says. She points at the fancy marble building just ahead of them and reads, "Simpson and Glass, Attorneys at Law."

"I believe we are," Regina agrees, expertly parallel parking beside the building with barely a second glance in her mirrors.

Emma whistles appreciatively. "That was impressive. I consider myself a pretty experienced Boston driver, but I still get anxious about parallel parking."

"I could do it in my sleep. In fact, I'm pretty sure I have," Regina says with a short laugh. "But only in this car."

"Well, maybe someday I'll achieve your level of greatness; that is, if you ever let me drive," Emma teases. "Do you have control issues or something?"

"Or something."

"Cool. So, how do you want to play this?"

"_Play _this?" Regina raises an eyebrow as she steps out of the car, straightening her jacket. "What do you mean?"

"You know, questioning the suspect. How are we going at him?"

"Well, first of all, he's not yet a suspect, so we're going to be very friendly and thank him for his time. And then we'll see where we go from there."

"Man," Emma grumbles jokingly, "I hate being friendly. When do we get to the good part?"

"Hopefully soon. I can't wait to close this case."

The two detectives take the elevator up to Glass's office, where his secretary informs them that he's meeting with a client but should be available in about ten minutes. Regina sits primly on a leather couch and watches her partner take in the sights of the well-decorated waiting area like Dorothy seeing the Emerald City for the first time.

"Not in Kansas anymore?" she jokes.

"Huh?" Emma isn't listening - she looks about five seconds away from whipping out her phone to take some pictures. "Is this a crystal chandelier? If this is just the waiting area, what do you think his actual office looks like?"

"I imagine we'll soon find out," Regina says with an amused grin. At the exact same moment, the secretary says, "Mr. Glass will see you now."

"I guess we will," Emma agrees. She follows Regina, almost shyly, into the office, where the lawyer is waiting for them with a friendly, if pompous, smile and a five-thousand dollar suit.

"Sidney Glass, Esquire," he says, rising from this desk to shake their hands. "What can I do..."

His voice trails off as he lays eyes on Regina, his eyes taking on a darker, almost lustful tone. The senior detective internally groans - she doesn't want to play this game today. Beside her, she hears Emma snort and almost wants to reprimand her before she realizes that the attorney apparently hasn't yet noticed that her partner exists.

"Mr. Glass," she says authoritatively, "I am Detective Regina Mills, and this is my partner, Detective Emma Swan. We would like to ask you some questions about your work with the Billings estate."

"Yes, of course," he says absentmindedly, eyes on Regina's chest. "Anything you want to know."

* * *

Robin glances up from his desk as Mills and Swan enter the squad room, one of them (the usual one) looking pissed and the other distracted by a conversation on her cell phone. He pokes his head out his office door and asks, "How was the lawyer?" with some trepidation, wondering why Regina practically has steam coming out of her ears. She's been so much more pleasant over the past week or so, even with the stress of this case. He thinks Detective Swan - this friendship or whatever it is they that they're developing (he's not going to judge) - has been good for her.

"An imbecile," she says shortly. "And a very bad liar."

"Do you think he's involved?" he asks urgently. "If there's any chance-"

"He's involved in something," Regina grumbles. "Whether or not it's murder, well, we have no evidence, except that he's a bad liar."

"His dinner date with Mrs. Billings?"

"Claims it was a business meeting about changes to their will, but the will has been kept in a safe that hasn't been opened in years, according to the family."

"Family members can lie, too," Robin points out. Unnecessarily, because Regina fixes him with an icy glare. "Or be misinformed."

"I'm well aware. He also clearly has a thing for Mrs. Billings. You should have seen the way he salivated at this blurry little photograph."

"Okay, well, 'clearly has a thing for her' isn't exactly going to hold up in court," Robin says lightly, chuckling as Regina looks at him like he's a bug on the bottom of her shoe. Sometimes humor is the only way to deal with her mood swings.

"I-"

"You're aware of that. Yes, I know, Detective. Just practicing my 'stating the obvious' skills."

She huffs angrily at being preempted and turns away. "I know he's involved somehow," she sighs hollowly. "But this case..."

"Tell me about it," he agrees. "How's Swan doing?" he asks, gesturing to the younger detective who is still talking on the phone, rather intensely, it seems. "Is everything okay with her?"

"Hm?" Regina seems surprised by the question. "She's fine, as far as I know. I think she's just talking to her son."

"Her son?" Robin raises his eyebrows in surprise. He hadn't known Swan was a mother - it's not something he would have necessarily pictured.

Just then, they overhear her saying, "Well, I'm back at work now, kid, so I have to go...Yep, see you in a few days. Love you, Henry!"

"Henry?" he wonders. "Wasn't that..."

He realizes a little too late that he was actually speaking out loud, and that, although he can't see his former partner's eyes, face has paled considerably, and her jaw is now clenched in fury and, he knows, something else much darker. _Shit._

"Regina, I didn't-"

But she's already storming away.

* * *

The next couple of days are hell for everyone on the homicide squad, and Emma thinks she's figured out how her partner was nicknamed "The Evil Queen." They can barely get through half an hour without someone incurring her wrath, usually in the form of a sarcastic comment, but sometimes it's open hostility. Even Locksley, who seems largely immune to her comments despite being the most frequent recipient of them, is walking on eggshells around her.

"Detective Swan, do you have to type so loudly?" Mills demands. The occupants of the squad room collectively hold their breaths.

"Yes," she mumbles, "unless you want to buy me a new keyboard with quieter keys." She has no idea what happened to drive her partner into such a state, and she's even less clear on why it's been going on for so long. Is it the case? Something Emma said or did? Her personal life?

Does Regina even have a personal life?

She's pulled out of her pondering by a dinging sound from her computer - an email from Officer Lucas, who has been trying to dig up leads on Sidney Glass. With wide eyes, she reads the information and grins. They might have something.

"Hey, Ruby found something on Glass," she tells her partner excitedly. "His brother is a snake breeder. He's based in Philadelphia, so he didn't show up on our initial searches."

"Really? Does he have Agrabahn vipers?"

Emma skims the email again and shakes her head, disappointed. "None registered, but that doesn't necessarily mean he doesn't have one."

"No, it doesn't," Regina agrees. "I suppose we should go question Glass again, and maybe talk to his brother."

"Do we have to go down to Pennsylvania?" Emma asks, wrinkling her nose in distaste. Henry's supposed to come to Boston tomorrow; she doesn't want to be out of town.

"First things first," Regina declares. "And I have a connection on the Philadelphia PD I can ask to do some recon for us. Let's ask our friend Sidney a few questions." After a quick call to his office to determine he's free, the two detectives are on their way.

Five minutes into the tense, silent car ride, Emma can't take it anymore.

"Look, I'm sorry for whatever I did to piss you off," she blurts out, "but could you just tell me what it was instead of taking it out on everyone?"

Regina looks surprised and somewhat confused. "You didn't do anything," she says.

"Well, you've been in Evil Queen mode ever since the last time we talked to Sidney. I figured it was because of our conversation in the car - you know, when I was talking about your mom and stuff."

"Oh, that," Regina says quietly. While she usually doesn't mind the nickname - it makes her feel powerful - she feels a pang of hurt at her partner's use of the term "Evil Queen," but she tries to push it down. She doesn't have time to dissect her increasingly confusing feelings about Emma Swan. "Don't worry, dear, my foul mood is entirely unrelated to you."

Well, actually, it's not, but that's a can of worms she's not willing to open with the woman now, or ever. It's not Emma's fault she chose to name her son something that brings back unpleasant memories, or that Locksley was insensitive enough to bring it up.

Emma breathes a sigh of relief. "Good," she says, "I was thinking you might have been upset about when I asked you why you became a cop. You seemed really sensitive about it."

"Well, you may rest assured that I'm over it. That's not...that's not why you skipped our run this morning, is it?"

"Yeah," Emma says, eyes downcast. "I kind of assumed you didn't want to see me."

Regina bites her lower lip, heartbroken that Emma would ever feel that way and furious with herself for giving that impression. When did this happen? Why does she suddenly care so much about someone's feelings? "For future reference, it takes a lot more than asking me about a sensitive topic to incur my rage," she mutters, lying through her teeth.

"You want to hear mine?" the younger woman offers. "My reason for becoming a cop, I mean. The real one."

"Sure."

"A cop saved my life when I was younger. I was in a really bad place, and he talked me out of making a terrible decision. I didn't even know his name, but I've never forgotten him. I wanted to pay it forward, you know - help people."

Regina can't do anything but nod and attempt to swallow the painful lump rapidly forming in her throat. She doesn't want to hear this. Doesn't even want to begin to think about what terrible decision her partner could be talking about. Without being fully conscious of the act, she reaches out to grab her partner's hand, squeezing it tightly.

Emma looks surprised and more than a little uncomfortable. "I mean, it was a long time ago," she mumbles. "It's behind me now."

"Right." Regina clears her throat and releases the blonde's hand. "Well, it appears we've made excellent time - here's his office."

This time around, neither detective wastes time on pleasantries, though Glass still seems quite taken with Regina's figure and keeps offering them coffee.

"Mr. Glass," Emma asks, all business, "are you familiar with a snake called the Agrabahn Viper?"

"What? No, I can't say that I am," he says quickly, looking shocked and a bit sheepish, like he's hiding something.

"Really? Because your brother is a snake breeder. Has he never shared any information about his work with you?" Regina's tone almost sounds seductive, and Emma wonders briefly what her endgame is.

"He...um...no. My brother and I lead very different lives," Glass fumbles. Emma can't deduce whether he's so uncomfortable because he's hiding something, or because he's so turned on by the woman inching closer to him by the minute. "We've always had different aspirations."

"I see, so you're not very close with him, then?"

"He has a bit of an inferiority complex," Glass says with a forced laugh. "He's always been a bit obsessed with snakes, to compensate, if you know what I mean."

"Oh, I do," Regina practically purrs, letting out a giggle that sounds so fake to Emma's ears, but Glass eats right up. "And I suppose you don't have that problem?"

"Not at all. I've never had a problem with that...aspect," Glass says in what Emma assumes is supposed to be a flirtatious tone. He just sounds gross, and his hand is creeping dangerously close to Regina's-

"How dare you!" her partner hisses, grabbing his wrist and jerking him to the floor the second he makes contact with her ass. "Sidney Glass, you're under arrest for assault on a police officer."

"Assault?" he sputters. "But I - you..."

"Touching someone in a sexual manner without consent. I assume you've learned the definition. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney..."

Emma smirks as her partner slaps a set of handcuffs on the stunned attorney and reads him his Miranda rights. It's a pretty good trick, she thinks, and she wonders if Regina will ever stop surprising her. That woman is an enigma.

* * *

_The frigid February wind whips her hair and stings her cheeks as Emma stumbles to the edge of the bridge, still staring numbly at the pink plus sign on the thin white stick in her hand, stark against the dark, sluggish waters of the nearly frozen river below her._

_How could she let this happen?_

_It was only one time. One stupid moment of curiosity and indiscretion and suddenly, she's pregnant._

_She's wondered before, but now she's certain: the universe hates her._

_She can't be a mother; she knows that much. She doesn't even know what one is supposed to do. And Neal...well, maybe he could be a father. But then, would they have to be together? She can't do that. If their not-so-magical night together taught her one thing, it's that she _can't_ be with Neal Cassidy. Or any man, probably._

_Then what?_

_She can terminate the pregnancy, she knows. Just walk into Planned Parenthood and walk back out a few hours later and forget this ever happened. But she won't forget; she knows that, too._

_She'll never forget._

_Until she's dead. _

_Jumping into the freezing, disease-infested waters of the Charles River is probably one of the more cliché ways to do this, but it's better than living the rest of her life alone and regretful._

_She drops the offending white stick into the water first._

_"Miss, littering is against the law," says a voice from slightly above her, on the other side of the railing. "I'm going to have to write you a ticket."_

_She stares at the officer in confusion. Seriously? A ticket? He thinks she gives a shit about some ticket?_

_"If you'll just follow me to my car so I can take down your information..."_

_He's serious._

_"Fuck off," she growls._

_"Miss, if you'll just give me your hand, I'll help you get safely over the railing," he insists, reaching for her wrist. She shoves him away._

_"Just leave me alone," she mutters. "And stick your ticket up your ass."_

_"I'm going to have to arrest you for assault on a police officer," he says seriously, pulling a set of handcuffs from his jacket pocket. "You have the right to remain silent-"_

_"What the hell?" Emma demands, wrenching away from the officer's grip, but not before he manages to get a cuff around one of her wrists. He attaches the other one to the railing._

_"Now you can't jump," he says smugly._

_Fucking asshole._

_"I'm assuming you didn't climb all the way to the edge of a bridge to throw a pregnancy test in the river. That was a pregnancy test, right?"_

_"None of your business."_

_"Positive or negative?"_

_"Still none of your business." Emma lets out a painful sigh and squeezes her eyes shut. She doesn't want to do this right now. She can't do this right now. Why did she have to hesitate for just fucking long enough for this guy to swoop in and make everything even worse._

_Just when she thought it couldn't get worse._

_"Technically, suicide is illegal, so it is my business as an officer of the law to prevent it. Also, I'm a human, and I'd like to keep all my fellow humans alive."_

_Emma rolls her eyes. "You're not very funny, you know."_

_"Wasn't joking. Or do you think a beautiful and intelligent young lady trying to throw herself off a bridge to almost certain death is a funny situation?"_

_She just grunts at him._

_"How old are you, anyway? And where are your parents?"_

_"Seventeen, and I don't have any."_

_"Guardians?"_

_"I ran away, and I'm_ not_ going back."_

_"No, of course not," he agrees, "not if they're the reason you're in this situation. What's your name?"_

_"Why would I trust a guy who handcuffed me to a bridge?" Emma demands angrily._

_Shockingly (and aggravatingly), he laughs. "As I said, intelligent. So, Miss No Name, let's make a deal. You tell me your name and promise not to jump, and I'll uncuff you from this bridge and agree to ignore the littering and assault incidents."_

_"And if I don't?"_

_"Well, technically, I can arrest you, and if you resist arrest, I can use force, which might not be great for your baby. I'll also throw in a new jacket and a donut if you cooperate," he offers._

_Emma considers. She's been sick all morning, but now she's starving. She supposes she can always come back later when he's not on duty, or find a less conspicuous way to off herself._

_"Bearclaw," she bargains._

_"Deal. Now, what's your name?"_

_"Emma."_

_"Okay, Emma, I'm going to unlock the handcuffs. You better not make any sudden movements toward the water." He keeps his word, and she follows him to his cruiser, which is gratifyingly warm. He hands her a box of donuts, muttering that he thinks there's a bearclaw in there and if not they'll go get one, and starts digging through a bag in the backseat. Finally, he emerges and hands her a red leather jacket just as she's biting into a warm and delicious bearclaw._

_"Here, someone gave this to my fiancée for her birthday, but she can't stand it. She says it makes her physically ill to look at, but I think it's pretty sharp."_

_"Was that someone you?" Emma asks suspiciously, shrugging her unencumbered hand through one of the sleeves._

_"No, I'd like to think I know her taste a little better than that. Coffee?" he offers, holding out his own cup. "It's still warm, and I'm not sick."_

_"A few minutes ago, you were very concerned for the health of my unborn child," Emma points out, but she takes the cup gratefully._

_"It's decaf. My fiancée is actually pregnant, too, and I'm giving up caffeine in solidarity."_

_"Must be tough for a cop."_

_"It's awful, but it makes her less cranky."_

_"You sound like you'll be a good husband," Emma observes, and she means it. "And a good father. Your fiancée and baby are pretty lucky."_

_"Thank you," he says with a soft and sincere smile. "We're excited for the future. We've started picking out baby names already - we just found out, like, two weeks ago."_

_Emma feels the ghost of a smirk creep onto her lips. She kind of likes this guy - he's a little crazy in the best way. "Oh yeah? What's it gonna be?"_

_"Well, we can't agree on girl's names, but if it's a boy, he's going to be Henry for her father."_

_"You don't meet too many Henrys these days."_

_"No, you don't," he agrees. "You know, maybe I'll suggest Emma as a girl's name."_

_Emma stares at the officer, thunderstruck and now thoroughly convinced of his insanity. "You'd want to name your kid after me?"_

_He shrugs. "Sure, why not? You seem like a pretty cool person, for all the ten minutes I've known you."_

_"Yeah, no. You don't know me at all. I'm not a good role model. I mean, you wouldn't want your daughter to jump off a bridge, would you?"_

_"No, but I would do everything in my power to ensure that she never felt she had to."_

_Emma tries to fight against the pressure building behind her eyes. "I can't raise a child," she tells this police officer she barely knows. "I'm only seventeen. I never had parents. I ran away before I could finish high school - I have no idea what I'm doing."_

_"Well, maybe you don't have to raise a child," he says gently. "Abortion is an option, as is adoption-"_

_"No."_

_"No?"_

_"I'm not abandoning my baby to the foster system. That's just - no."_

_"And the other choice?"_

_"I don't know. I thought about it, but..." she trails off, unable to accurately explain her feelings on the matter._

_"It's not a decision you want to make lightly, I know. What about the father?" he asks._

_"He's my...friend." She stops herself from saying boyfriend because she doesn't want him to be, not anymore. "It was stupid. I don't want to tell him."_

_"Why not?"_

_"He's...he'll want to raise the baby. He'll want to be a dad, and maybe he can, you know? He's older, he's finished school. Maybe he can be responsible-"_

_"How much older?" the cop demands, and Emma suddenly realizes she could be incriminating Neal by revealing his age, and she doesn't want that._

_"He - I - it's..."_

_"You know what? Don't worry about it. You were saying he could be responsible?"_

_"Yeah, I think he could be a decent parent, maybe. But I don't want to be parents with him, if that makes any sense. We're...well, whatever we are, it's finished. I can't be with him like that."_

_"Why not? You make it seem like he's an okay guy."_

_"He is," Emma says quickly, "it's just...there's something wrong." She feels like an idiot, spilling her guts to this guy, but there's something about him that just feels trustworthy. He doesn't seem like he'll judge her. "Not with him, with me. I think I'm gay."_

_It's the first time she's ever said it out loud, and she expects fireworks or something. But instead, the cop just takes a bite of his donut and pats her on the shoulder. "There's nothing wrong with you," he says reassuringly. "And you should talk about all of that with this guy. You said he's your friend, right? And you shouldn't have to be in this alone."_

_Emma's eyes fill with tears. "I'm just really scared," she admits._

_"It's a scary situation," he says, putting an arm around her. "My fiancée and I are in our thirties with a steady income and strong support system, and we're still terrified about ninety percent of the time. It's normal to be afraid when you don't know what's going to happen next."_

_"But you're going to be a great parent," Emma sniffs. "We both already know that much."_

_"And so are you," he promises. "Emma, whatever you decide, I can tell you care so much about your baby already, and you're going to try your best to do right by him or her. Being a good parent means making sure your child gets its best chance, whatever that may be, and I know you'll do that."_

_"You're kind of an optimist, aren't you?"_

_"Of course, that's the only way to be. Well, anyway, I've got to get back to patrolling. Can I drop you off somewhere? Where are you staying?"_

_"Actually, I can walk," Emma says. "Thanks so much, for everything."_

_"My pleasure. Hey, Emma, I'm definitely naming my baby after you. I mean, as long as it's a girl."_

_"You should probably check with your fiancée first," she points out. "And I still think you should try to find a better role model."_

_"Nope. I'm still going with you. You _will_ be a great role model, Emma, I know it. One day, you're going to change someone's life."_

_"So, now you're a fortune teller?"_

_"Nope, just calling it like I see it. Take care, Emma," he calls after her as the car drives away. Emma waves and walks confidently off of the bridge, no longer interested in jumping into the water below it. She wants to believe that cop; she wants to grab onto his optimism and hope; she wants to believe in herself._

_Seven-and-a-half months later, when she gives birth to a healthy baby boy, she wants to name her child after that cop, like he promised to do for her, but she realizes that he never told her his name._

_She goes with Henry instead._

* * *

Friday night can't come soon enough. Regina manages to trick Glass into saying something incriminating, but they can't get any evidence against Mrs. Billings due to attorney-client privilege, so the case is far from closed in Emma's mind. Still, Locksley seems to be in the mood to just let Glass go down for the murder.

"We have no evidence against Mrs. Billings," he says tiredly. "We don't even have a plausible motive for her. Glass has confessed - he was in love with Linda Billings's husband and killed him so they could be together."

Regina shakes her head. "I don't buy it," she argues.

"I'm not going to stop you from investigating, but you have to admit we've got nothing," Locksley sighs.

"I've never known you to back down from uncovering the truth," Regina says angrily. "And now you just want to give up? How much of this is your own opinion and how much is brass and reporters crawling up your back?"

"I said I wouldn't stop you from investigating, and I won't. You have all weekend and nothing else demanding urgent attention. But, Regina, you know as well as I do that we sometimes lose."

"Maybe you do, but I don't," Regina retorts, storming back to her desk.

Emma glances between her partner and lieutenant, conflicted. She wants to keep investigating, but Locksley had just told them to leave, and Henry's train arrives in half an hour.

"Regina, I-"

"Go," the senior detective says shortly. "I might be here all night, I wouldn't want to keep you from your Friday night plans."

"Thanks," Emma mumbles.

"I imagine you'll be going to the bar with Nolan and Jones? I heard them discussing their plans with ADA Blanchard."

"No, actually," Emma corrects hurriedly, grabbing her bag. "South Station."

"Oh, right, your son," Regina says in a slightly softened tone. "Have a great weekend with him."

"I will. You have a great weekend, too. Don't work too hard." The senior detective laughs humorlessly and turns back to her computer screen.

Of course, Emma gets caught in traffic on her way to the station. She curses loudly and leans on her horn as fights against the rush hour traffic. She'd intended to be ready and waiting with a box of donuts, but instead she's sprinting into the station just as Henry disembarks the train. With Neal, of course, because neither one of them is willing to let their son travel alone, but he's promised to stay out of their hair for most of the weekend.

She's somewhat gratified, at least, to discover that she's not as breathless as she might ordinarily be from running up all those stairs. Her training must be paying off.

"Mom!" Henry hollers, running into her arms.

"Hey, kid! I missed you so much." She holds onto him longer and tighter than he might be comfortable with, but it's been too long and she's afraid he'll see the tears in her eyes if she removes her chin from the top of his head.

"Mom!" he grumbles.

"Okay, fine." Sighing, she pulls away and offers an awkward one-armed hug to Neal. "How was the train?"

"Awesome!" Henry says enthusiastically. "I took lots of pictures, and Dad bought cinnamon buns."

"We planned to save one for you," Neal mutters, playfully shoving his son's shoulder, "but things didn't exactly go according to plan."

"I'm a growing boy; I have to eat a lot. That's what the school nurse said on Health Day."

"Yeah, but I'm pretty sure she was referring to vegetables," Emma jokes, ruffling his hair. "Speaking of which, I was thinking we could go to the North End, maybe get some Italian food tonight."

"I assume you'll be eating pasta primavera or something equally vegetable-y," Neal scolds his son and ex-girlfriend simultaneously. Emma has never been known for her great love of green foods.

"No way! Pizza!" Henry exclaims.

Emma laughs. "Who am I to deny my son some famous Boston pizza when he's been living in New York for the last month? He obviously hasn't been able to have a decent slice of pizza there."

"We can get mushroom and onion pizza," Henry suggests. "Those are vegetables. And cannoli for desert, from Mike's."

"Of course," Emma declares. "Like I said before, it's Henry Day. Your wish is my command." She puts an arm around her son's shoulder and leads him out to the parking garage, carefully avoiding Neal's most-certainly judging eyes. If she only gets to see Henry once a month, of course she's going to spoil him. Neal should have thought of that before taking him to New York.

"Dad, are you coming?"

"If you two don't mind, I'd also like some pizza and cannoli," Neal says with a slight hesitation. "Then I'll check into my hotel and let you have some quality mother-son bonding time."

"Yeah, that's totally fine." Emma grins as they walk to the car. She doesn't care about Neal, she doesn't care about their infuriating case, and she doesn't care about her mercurial partner. Her son is here; nothing else matters. She's happy.


	5. Chapter 5

**Note**: Hello, lovely readers! Upon rereading Chapter 4, I noticed a bunch of typos in the last section that I apparently didn't pick up while editing, so I apologize. My only excuse is that I was very tired at the time. Most egregiously, I typed, "[Glass] was in love with Linda Billing's husband and killed him so they could be together." That was meant to say, "[Glass] was in love with Linda Billings and killed her husband so they could be together." I have no idea what I was thinking and hopefully you all figured out what I meant - the other way would have made for an interesting but perhaps nonsensical motive.

**Warnings**: Brief-ish discussion of domestic violence/marital inequality (and, of course, murder). On a lighter note, there may also be an excess of fairytale references. Sorry I'm not sorry.

* * *

Henry chatters non-stop throughout dinner about every topic under the sun: the twenty-five or so books he's read since the last time they saw each other, his friends in New York, the new video game he wants for his birthday, comparisons between Boston and New York's pizza...everything. Emma had forgotten how much of a talker he's always been. The phone just isn't the same; there are only words, and no room to absorb the essence of _Henry_. She's missed him more than she even realized.

She sits silently and listens, a small, sad smile dancing across her lips. He just sounds so happy, and she reassures herself that living in New York with Neal has been good for him. That maybe letting him go was the right choice, even if it's the most painful thing she's ever done.

She did what every parent is supposed to do for their child: she gave him his best chance. It just happens to be that his best chance is without her, and maybe she has to accept that.

"Wow, kid, you really demolished that pizza," Emma observes, raising her eyebrows at the empty platter in front of them. She doesn't remember eating more than two slices, and Neal barely touched his, muttering something about trying to lose a few pounds to impress a woman at his gym. That means Henry must have eaten four - five? - slices on his own. _Yikes._

It looks like it's starting to catch up with him, too. "Um...yeah...I'm kind of full now," he mumbles.

"Maybe it would be best to save the cannoli for another time, then," Emma says lightly, ruffling his hair. "We wouldn't want you to get sick on your first night in Boston."

Henry groans. "I'll be fine in an hour. I'm growing, remember? I need lots of calories."

"Yeah, probably not over a thousand in a single sitting, though."

"Please, Mom?"

How can she resist those big puppy dog eyes? Especially when her defenses are so rusty? "I'll tell you what," she proposes, "we'll go for a nice, long walk so you can digest before we get to Mike's. If you're hungry then, you can eat a cannoli. Otherwise, we'll wrap it up and save it for tomorrow."

"I'll be hungry again," Henry declares, his face resolute. "Anyway, they're no good the next day."

"Fine. Neal do you need a ride to your hotel?" Emma asks, just to be polite. There's a dangerous glint in her eyes that tells him he'd better not say yes.

"I'm good with walking," her ex-boyfriend quickly replies. "It's a beautiful night, and I'm only staying about a mile away. Unless you think you might need some help cleaning up vomit later," he adds with a wink.

"We're good. There will be no vomit, right Henry? And if there is, I can handle it."

She glares haughtily at Neal, daring him to protest. She knows, of course, that Neal is, objectively, the better parent. He's older and more responsible and works regular hours at a stable, safe job and knows how to cook and all those things that social workers and their ilk look at to determine a fit home for a child, which is why she'd given him full custody without much of a fight. But still, she's Henry's mother. This is what she signed on for. She can take care of a little potential vomit on her own.

The mother-son pair walk happily down Fleet Street toward the harbor together. Henry is still babbling away excitedly - something about the Yankees. _When did he start caring about baseball?_ she wonders. _And why isn't he a Sox fan?_

Has she had any influence on her son's life and preferences at all? Should she, perhaps, quit her job and become a better mother?

But, no, she tells herself, that wouldn't do. Henry loves that she's a cop – he thinks she's a hero – and he's happy in New York. She can hear it in his voice. She _did_ do the right thing in letting Neal take him away, and she won't let her petty, jealous side convince her otherwise.

"So, Dad was saying that maybe one day the three of us can go to a Sox-Yankees game together," Henry suggests casually.

"The three of us, huh? Whatever would have given him that idea?"

"Come on, Mom," Henry groans. "We've done stuff all together before. I'm not saying you should marry him. It's just a baseball game."

"Good, because I'm not marrying him. You know that, right?" Although there has been nothing between Emma and Neal since the night Henry was made, they've always tried to keep things as amicable as possible, for the kid's sake. Even if that means spending time together when they'd rather not. It's worked out pretty well for the most part, and Henry's as well-adjusted as any kid from a so-called broken home can be, but sometimes she has the sneaking suspicion that he'd like his parents to get together. And she's not sure why that bothers her so much more right now than it ever has in the past.

"Yeah, of course, because you're gay. You already told me that."

"Right," Emma says carefully. "But, you know, even if I wasn't gay, your father and I might still not want to be together, and that's okay, too. It doesn't change how much we love you, and even if we date other people, you will _always_ come first."

Henry nods seriously. "I know. You already told me that, too. So why are you telling me again? Is it because of Dad? Because Tamara will never go out with him – she's way too cool." Suddenly, he gasps, and his eyes widen and glimmer with excitement. "Or did _you_ get a girlfriend?"

"What? No way!" she exclaims, swatting him playfully on the shoulder. "What would give you that idea?"

"Well, why not?" he demands. "Isn't that what you're supposed to do when you're a lesbian – get a girlfriend? Have you ever even had one before?"

"I...yeah, of course I have!" If she's being perfectly honest, she hasn't. Not really. Nothing that's gone past a one-night stand. But her ten year old son obviously doesn't need to hear about _that_. "Anyway, if you're going to give me the third-degree about my love life all weekend, you can go back to New York. Tell me more about your school."

"Okay," Henry groans, giving her that same look Neal has that says this conversation definitely isn't over. "School is pretty good. English class is my favorite because we're doing lots of writing this year, but math and science are okay, too. Actually, everything is good, except my P.E. teacher's kind of evil."

"Yeah, your dad mentioned that was your lowest grade. What gives, kid? It's elementary school P.E. – you should be able to pull an A just by showing up and running when they say go."

Henry shrugs dismissively, and Emma makes a mental note to ask Neal about that later. She's got to stay up-to-speed on these things. "She's just evil," he says. "She doesn't like any cool sports."

Emma nods, pursing her lips. "Okay, evil sounds a bit extreme for not liking the same sports. What qualifies as 'cool' in the world of Henry Swan-Cassidy?"

"Fencing!" her son immediately shouts, eyes lit up with glee. "Or archery! Or maybe we could learn to ride horses...cool stuff, you know? Like knights do."

"Knights, okay," Emma laughs. "Unfortunately, you go to school in New York City, not fairytale land."

"It's called the Enchanted Forest, Mom. Duh."

"Oh, right. Duh!" Emma groans, whacking her palm against her forehead. "The Enchanted Forest. How could I be so ignorant?"

"It's not your fault," Henry quickly reassures his mother, patting her comfortingly on the back. "It's easy to forget your fairytale knowledge when I'm not around to remind you every day."

Emma smiles sadly. "Yeah," she agrees. "On that note, kid, I really miss having you around."

"I miss you, too. But it helps when I have a lot to do. When I'm busy, I don't think about it as much."

"Good strategy."

"Yeah, so what have you been doing to keep busy?" God, he sounds like an adult right now. How the hell did he grow up so much in just a month?

"Well, obviously, I've been working, and then..."

"Right, nothing. As I suspected."

"Hey!" Emma exclaims. "I do not do _nothing_ outside of work. For example, I've recently taken up long-distance running."

Henry looks unimpressed. "How long is long?"

"Ten miles a day," Emma says proudly.

Her son wrinkles his nose. "You run ten miles a day by yourself? That will really help your loneliness."

"No, with Regina – Detective Mills, my partner from work. And who says I'm lonely?"

"Is she hot?" Henry asks, suddenly all too interested.

"She's – _what_? No. Henry! She's my colleague and mentor! She's one of the best detectives in BPD. Why are you even using those words? You're way too young to be objectifying women like that!"

"Sorry," he mumbles, looking down at his feet. "So anyway, if you're not interested in her in that way, is she at least your friend? Because you need some friends."

Emma considers the last couple of weeks. Her partner is cranky more often than not, and her feelings are frequently inscrutable, but she does think they've developed an interesting sort of rapport. "Yeah, I guess she is my friend," she says slowly.

"Good. Friends are good," Henry pronounces, and Emma feels vaguely guilty about the fact that her little boy is now so mature that he's the one looking out for her well-being. He's only ten. It should still be the other way around.

"Yes, friends are good," she agrees. "Tell me more about yours."

He launches into a detailed description of all the boys (and a few girls) he hangs out with at school and who has the high scores on which video games. Apparently, there are _much_ cooler kids in New York City than Boston – surprise, surprise. He tells her all about the Creative Writing club he joined at his school and how he's collaborating with a girl named Grace (It sounds like he might have a tiny crush on her, but Emma's not about to open that can of worms on their first night together.) to write a book that's "a mash-up of all the best fairytales."

"I'll read some of it to you tonight before bed!" he says excitedly before his face suddenly turns bright red. "I mean...um...I'm too old for bedtime reading, but maybe..."

"I don't think it counts if you're the one reading to me," Emma immediately interrupts, heart shattering at the thought of her little boy ever being too old for anything – well, maybe not diapers and temper tantrums; she doesn't miss those. He's growing up far too quickly and now that he's in New York, she feels like she's missing everything.

Although, honestly, she was missing everything even when he was in Boston.

"Yeah, it probably doesn't," Henry agrees happily. "Anyway, in this story, the Evil Queen from Snow White curses everyone, but they all kind of had it coming because they kept making deals with Rumplestiltskin, when he was actually the one who made everything happen."

Emma smirks because "Evil Queen" makes her think of her partner, who kind of fits the nickname even though she agrees with Mary Margaret that it's sexist as hell. "Rumplestiltskin? The straw-into-gold guy?"

"Yeah! And in our book he has a lot of disguises, too. Like, he's Cinderella's fairy godmother and the beast from Beauty and the Beast."

"Sounds complicated," Emma chuckles. Leave it to her kid to be so twistedly creative. "What does she do to curse them?"

"We haven't decided yet, but we want it to be something kind of funny and weird. Something that's not actually that terrible when you really think about it, just ridiculous."

Emma considers for a minute, and then an idea that could certainly qualify as ridiculous pops into her head. "Hey, what if she cursed them to become regular people in the real world? That could be really funny."

"Yeah!" exclaims Henry, eyes shining with excitement. "And they could all live together in a small town and, like, fight with each other at town meetings, and nobody knows why they hate each other."

"Oh, and maybe they could have absurd town holidays, like 'Apple Appreciation Day' or 'Coal Miner's Day' and nobody has any idea why they celebrate them and the rest of the world doesn't."

Henry is getting really excited now, practically bouncing as they amble slowly along the Inner Harbor. "This could be awesome! I have to email Grace tonight and tell her! There's a lot to figure out, though, if we want the plot to make sense." Suddenly, he stops and says urgently, "Mom, we have to go home so I can type all of this before I forget."

Emma chuckles. "Okay, kid. Car's about a mile that way. Should we jog?"

He attempts to run for a few steps and then clutches his stomach. "No, too much pizza," he grunts. "Let's just walk fast."

"I guess this means no Mike's tonight?"

"It'll still be open tomorrow," Henry says reasonably.

"Sounds like a plan." She slings an arm over his shoulder and smiles to herself. Her kid is the weirdest. But he's also the best.

* * *

Regina groans as the sunlight from the window reaches her bleary, sleep-deprived eyes. Sitting up slowly and cracking her neck, she glances at her watch and sees that it's almost six. About an hour later than she typically wakes up, but that hour is all she managed to sleep last night.

Sighing, she laces up her running shoes and tries to stretch the kinks out of her spine. She'd forgotten how uncomfortable this couch was - or maybe she's just getting old.

No, it can't be that. She refuses to acknowledge the possibility any further.

She stops for a moment in their usual place to wait for Emma before realizing that of course her partner isn't going to abandon the son she hasn't seen in a month to go for a jog. Cursing her own idiocy, she quickly continues running down the trail and tries to ignore the hot tears leaking out of her eyes.

It's the wind. The wind is blowing dust and pollen in her face and she's reasonably certain she's allergic. This has nothing to do with Emma. Absolutely nothing to do with Emma spending time with her son. Regina is an adult. She doesn't feel petty envy.

Anyway, she likes running alone. At least, that's what she tells herself the first three times she turns around and feels her stomach clench in disappointment when she doesn't see the familiar blonde ponytail bouncing along behind her. The fourth time she turns her head, she manages to trip over a stick that's found its way onto the trail and goes sprawling across the pavement in front of all the other Saturday morning joggers.

Examining her skinned knee and trying not to let those pesky tears spill out -_ You're not a child, Regina. Grown women do not show weakness._ - Regina decides to quit while she's ahead and limps her way back to the station, where she takes a long, cool shower and tries to think about anything besides what a mess her life has become. Or maybe, what a mess it always was.

Maybe her mother was right.

She's onto her third cup of coffee in the same number of hours - the baristas next door have threatened to cut her off - when she hears a very familiar voice cry out, "Auntie Gina!" Approximately ten seconds later, a small, warm body vaults onto her lap and wraps its skinny little arms tightly around her neck.

"Roland!" she exclaims, torn between joy that she gets to see the boy and annoyance that she has to see his father. "Did you come to help me with paperwork?"

"Me and Daddy bringed you brunch!" the little boy declares proudly.

"His idea," Robin clarifies, smiling infuriatingly from the doorway, "but I promise he didn't make it." He looks her wrinkled suit up and down and asks, "I'm guessing you sl - you stayed here last night?" She nods in affirmation, shooting him a brief glare over Roland's head. It's completely unfair for him to come here and bother her and use his son as a shield.

"Catch any breaks in the case?"

"No," she groans, tiredly running a hand through her hair. "But I'm not giving up just yet."

He nods. "Good. Where's Swan, by the way? Couldn't scare her into coming in with you?"

"Didn't ask. Her son's up from New York for the weekend, and I didn't want to intrude on their time together."

"Auntie Gina?" Roland interrupts. "Can I help you with the paperwork now?"

"Yes, of course, dear." She reaches into her desk to find the Disney coloring book and crayons she always keeps there for these occasions and says in her most official voice. "I need this picture of Snow White eating a poisoned apple done at your earliest possible convenience. It's for an extremely important investigation. You may sit at Detective Pinocchio's desk."

"Yes, ma'am!" The little boy grabs the supplies out of her hands and quickly plops down on Detective Booth's chair.

"Why is Booth 'Pinocchio,' again?" Robin queries.

"Because he lied, Daddy! He said his name is August, but that's not a real name! It's a month!"

"Of course," the lieutenant laughs. Once he's certain his son is occupied, he turns back to Regina and says awkwardly, "Right, you mentioned Swan had a son. What's he doing in New York?"

"I don't know, it's none of my business. It's not really any of yours, either."

He shrugs. "I guess it makes sense, you know? This job isn't exactly conducive to being a single parent. If I didn't have such a strong support system, well...I don't know."

"You'd give up the job," Regina says immediately, with a quick glance toward Roland, who is coloring like his life depends on it. "Don't even think about suggesting otherwise."

"Of course I would," Robin quickly agrees. "It'd hurt like hell, but I would. What about you?"

"What about me?" Regina fires back, carefully avoiding her former friend's eyes.

"Would you trade in your badge for motherhood?"

"What do you think?" she demands. He's been trying to push this on her for years now: _healing can only begin when you put a name on what's hurting you, Regina. You have to talk about it to start making it better. _But she won't do it. The scar tissue on her heart may be ugly and uncomfortable and still not fully healed, prone to leaking and drawing infection, but _anything _is better than opening those wounds again.

"I think the world isn't exactly forgiving of women who want to have it all," he answers cryptically, and Regina has to admit she's caught off-guard.

"Is that your opinion as a proud male feminist?" she snaps, masking her discomfort with hostility. It's not like Roland is listening, she reassures herself. The little boy is humming softly while focusing very carefully on coloring inside the lines. He's quite good at it, for a four year old. Very attentive to detail. Once he's better at reading and writing, maybe in a year, he'll be able to take over for Jones or Nolan.

"It's my observation as someone who has been very close to several women working in a male-dominated field."

"Is that supposed to be an apology?"

"I don't know," Robin admits. "What do you think?"

"I think it's entirely unbecoming for us to have this conversation based on speculation about the life circumstances of a person of which we know nothing."

"Well, we certainly want to be unbecoming. What about brunch? Roland, would you like to show Auntie Regina her pancakes?"

Roland quickly catapults himself out of Booth's chair and snatches the plastic bag from Robin's hands. "It's from Granny's Diner next to our apartment!" he explains excitedly. "They have apple butter on them because it's your favorite!"

Regina fights the urge to roll her eyes at Robin. She can't believe he would be so desperate to rekindle their friendship that he would use his son to worm his way into her heart. But Roland looks so proud of himself that she can't resist giving the little boy a tight hug and affectionately mussing his hair. "I can't believe you remembered," she says, planting a kiss on his cheek. "You're such a smart boy, so much smarter than these idiots I have to work with every day."

"Daddy says we shouldn't call people idiots," Roland says seriously, but then he adds in a conspiratorial whisper, "but I think Detective Pinocchio and Detective Charming are reeeaaally big idiots."

"Regina, what have you been teaching my son?" Locksley groans.

"Not my fault he's smarter than his father," she jokes.

"Yeah, Daddy, I'm the smartest," Roland says proudly. "That's why Auntie Gina likes me best, 'cause I'm not an idiot."

"Auntie Gina should stop teaching you bad words and eat her pancakes before they get cold," Robin mutters.

Regina quickly takes a bite of her pancakes and makes a big show of enjoying them. "Roland, these are delicious!" she exclaims. "You really outdid yourself. I didn't know you were a detective _and_ a chef!"

Roland laughs. "Auntie Gina, you're so silly! Granny made them, not me."

"Oh, my mistake."

"Anyway," the little boy says in his most important-sounding voice, "I gotta finish my paperwork so I don't get fired." He trudges back to Booth's desk and thoughtfully twirls a blue crayon between his clumsy little fingers, and both Robin and Regina fight to hold back laughter.

"I'm sorry for the intrusion," Robin says seriously once he regains control of his emotions. "But it really was his idea, and I figured you hadn't remembered to eat."

"Roland is always a pleasant intrusion," Regina reassures her boss and former best friend. "And you may have been correct," she mutters, glancing at the extra-large coffee next to her computer. She'd been offered a complimentary scone with the second cup, but of course she'd declined.

"Yeah, and you can be quite irritable when your blood sugar is low," he points out. "I thought Swan might be here, too, and that maybe you wouldn't want to show _her_ your Evil Queen mode just yet."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, nothing at all," Robin says quickly. "Just that I've noticed you're a lot more...friendly toward her than some of our other coworkers."

"Well, she's a lot less idiotic than some of our other coworkers," Regina fires back.

The lieutenant rolls his eyes at her. "I suppose you have a point."

Triumphant at winning that argument, Regina puts a large chunk of pancake into her mouth, and Robin opens the box of donuts he apparently also brought to the station. He selects a chocolate glazed and sits down next to her, and the pair eat in companionable silence for a moment, watching Roland painstakingly color all the details of Snow White's dress. She'd taught him that an accurate police sketch can often help catch a criminal. It almost reminds her of old times, but, even more now, it reminds her of what might have been, in a world where vicious serial killers and drunk drivers didn't exist and the four of them could still be saving the world and raising their families together like they'd planned all those years ago.

But she can't think about that. Not now.

"You know," Regina laughs, suddenly reminded of something, "she asked me why I became a cop. Emma did, I mean."

If Robin is surprised that she's actually starting a conversation with him, or bringing up her partner once again, he doesn't let it show. "Oh yeah? Which answer did you give her?"

She shrugs dismissively. "Something about wanting a cool car and pissing off my mother."

"Which you certainly succeeded in doing."

Regina nods sadly. "You'd think twenty years later, she'd be over it, but I suppose not."

"When's the last time you even saw her?"

"Christmas, actually. She's still trying to convince me to find a husband - tried to set me up with some accountant from her firm." Regina shudders. "The problem is that most men, if they're still single at our age...well, there's a problem."

"Gee, thanks," Robin jokes.

"Come on, you know I'm not referring to widowers!" she exclaims, elbowing him playfully in the chest. "I'm talking about men who are handsome and suave and filthy rich and still can't seem to land a long-term relationship with _someone._"

"Yeah, I got it. I'm ugly and poor," he says, feigning offense, and Regina smiles in spite of herself. It's been so long since she's had this - this kind of easy friendship. With Robin or anybody.

She's surprised to discover that she's missed it.

"I think your mother just wants you to be happy," Robin says thoughtfully. "But she shows it in all the wrong ways.

"I am happy!" Regina cries out in indignation. Robin purses her lips and gives her a look that says he doesn't believe a word.

"Are you? Really?"

Regina sniffs and holds her head high. This conversation is quickly becoming much too intimate, and she never should have initiated it in the first place. "Of course I am. This job makes me very happy. What about you?"

"Yeah, sure. The job's great, and I've got Roland," he says uncomfortably, casting a loving glance at the boy still absorbed in his coloring before looking down at his feet. His eyes flicker up toward hers for just a moment, and she meets them, staring unblinkingly at the pain she knows is reflected back in her own, deeply concealed but still so very present, just lurking and waiting to creep up and take them down when it's least expected or wanted.

They understand each other far too well, she thinks, which is why she tries to avoid conversations like this one at all costs. Conversations full of those small little triggers that will bring all the pain bubbling to the surface again, like harsh, burning lava ready to destroy everything in its wake.

Like it's threatening to do right now.

"Well, my investigation has turned up nothing," she says loudly, ducking away from his gaze. "I might as well try to get to the gym before it becomes too crowded."

"Why do you have to go?" Roland whines. "My paperwork's not even done yet!"

"I'm sorry," Regina says sincerely, giving the little boy a fierce hug. "Thank you so much for my breakfast. I just...I have to go."

She kisses his forehead and deeply inhales his scent of trees and kiddie shampoo. Then she bolts out the door.

* * *

Regina may be a runner by nature, but weekend afternoons are always devoted to strength and plyometrics. She hates the exercises – she's never quite been able to get over the sensation of feeling awkward and undignified performing squat jumps – but over time, they've started to give her a certain sense of peace.

When her body feels strong, it's easier to ignore the fact that nothing else does.

It's a warm and sunny day, with the tiny green buds of springtime just beginning to appear, and she ends up at the Common along with hordes of other exercisers who had the same thought. The temperature is perfect for outdoor circuits, and as the endorphins kick in and the sweat begins dripping down her face, she already feels so much better.

She feels in control again.

She'd thought she was doing well, she truly had. After that incident with Locksley, she'd learned her lesson about letting people get too close, letting them in far enough to see the chinks in her armor. Yet somehow, she'd forgotten that things can exist without being seen, and the last few days have been a testament to the fact that pain long-buried can rise again and make itself visible all too easily.

So she has to fight it, she thinks as she drops down into a one-legged squat. She'll keep fighting and keep digging the hole deeper and deeper, because the alternative to exercise and whiskey and sarcasm is something that scares her a whole lot more than looking down the knife of a serial killer.

Circuit finished, Regina takes a long swig of water and wipes her brow with the hem of her shirt. Checking her watch, she congratulates herself on a job well done and perfect timing – her irritating lieutenant and his disarming son will have certainly gone home by now, and she'll have the station all to herself for the evening. Or maybe, she can spend a weekend in her own home for once.

Yes, that's exactly what she'll do. Go home and prepare herself a nice meal and sleep in her bed like a normal human being.

She's about to close the door of her car when she hears an all too familiar voice approaching from behind. "You're right, I think the penguin show has improved since we last saw it."

"I know, right? The aquarium in general has gotten a lot better."

Emma. And the other voice must be her son. Henry, she thinks, and feels her heart sinking. She slams the door shut and hopes they didn't see her.

_This won't do,_ her mother's words scold from somewhere deep in the recesses of her mind. _Remember your manners, Regina. Get out of the car and say hello._ But she can't. She can't get out of the car and meet a ten year old boy named Henry and talk to the partner who makes her feel so deeply and intensely confused.

But, evidently, she can watch them from her rearview mirror like a stalker. Both mother and son are carrying ice cream cones and engaged in conversation like they're the only two people in the world. Henry is saying something that must be funny, because Emma's head is thrown back and she's practically shaking with the biggest, happiest grin all across her face. Her long, blonde hair flies dances in the gentle breeze, reflecting the light of the sun's rays in such a way that strikes Regina as beautifully poetic until the thought is forced from her mind by the sight of Emma's arm draping affectionately across Henry's shoulders and the way he looks up at his mother with so much love, like she's his own personal hero and savior.

Even as she's happy – truly happy, because surely Emma deserves this, deserves to be surrounded by love and never have to suffer from dark and lonely thoughts again – she feels the heart she'd just carefully pieced back together shattering once again, and she leans against the steering wheel and fights against the burning sensation building up behind her eyes.

_I'm disappointed in you,_ says the voice that comes half from Cora and half from herself.

"I know," she whispers, rocking back and forth in an ineffective attempt to soothe herself. "I know."

Once she finally feels calm enough to take the wheel, she drives back to the stationhouse and flops onto the break room sofa, pressing a cushion over her face to muffle the sound of the tears she knows are coming.

She doesn't make it home that weekend.

* * *

_Regina, darling,_

_I hope you're well. It's been a while since I've heard from you, and I do have to admit I've become a bit concerned. I had hoped you would attend our Easter gathering, but the invitation must have become lost. A pity, because there was a lovely young gentleman I wished for you to meet. He's a very well-respected neurosurgeon with classic good looks. Oh well, maybe next time._

_I assume you've been preoccupied with work. The Senator Billings case has been all over the news. I'd say it's a terrible tragedy, but when a man spends years treating his wife like a prized bull who exists only to service his own desires, well, I suppose you can say he had it coming. I certainly won't miss his incredibly irritating misogynist comments at dinner parties, let me assure you._

_Anyway, do call sometime, dear. Your father and I are busy but content, and he sends his regards. We're planning a trip to the Alps for one last weekend of skiing before the summer, if there's any way you can join us. But, of course, your job must come first._

_Regards,_

_Cora Mills, MBA. President and CEO of Mills Financial._

* * *

Regina stares suspiciously at her computer screen. There's something bothering her about her mother's email, and this time it's not just the usual something.

"Emma," she calls out. Her partner has just dashed, panting, into the squad room, fresh from dropping her son off at South Station. "Come here."

"Sorry, traffic was a bitch this morning," the blonde wheezes. "What's up?"

"Just...read this," Regina says slowly, unsure if it's just her own exhausted mind creating stories where there are none, or if her absurd mother has somehow given them a clue to unlocking the case.

Emma appears behind her shoulder and quickly scans the email. "Skiing in the Alps!" the younger woman exclaims. "If you don't want to go, can I?"

"Not that!" Regina snaps. "The part about our case!"

Emma reads again. "Huh. Your mom knows the Billings family? Well, I guess that's not surprising – I feel like all the prominent families in this city know each other. She certainly has a way with words, though. What the hell does she mean by 'prized bull?'"

"That was my thought, as well."

"Interesting, too, that she seems so opposed to men using women as status symbols, like, one paragraph after encouraging you to do the same to a guy. And why does she sign emails to her own kid with her job title?"

Regina rolls her eyes. She realized a long time ago that paying any mind to such things will only lead to lost sleep and heartache. "Don't try to make sense of my mother, dear. I've been trying for over forty years with little success. We're talking about Senator Billings. Focus!"

"Okay, yeah, prized bull comment. You don't think there's any chance he was abusing his wife, do you?"

"Oh, I do," Regina says quickly. "I think there's a good chance. If not physically, then perhaps emotionally. Whenever you have a marriage where one partner vastly outranks the other in income or social status, well, I won't say it's inevitable, but it's always a cause for concern. I don't necessarily trust my mother's judgment, on anything, but I'd say it's worth looking into."

"But how? I mean, we could ask their other friends, but it would be hearsay at best. I doubt she'd admit to anything herself, not when she knows it could implicate her in his murder."

Regina sighs and exhaustedly pushes a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. "I don't know," she admits. "Gaining access to her medical records would require a court order, which would of course require evidence to obtain."

"You mean an email from the detective's mother doesn't qualify as probable cause?" Emma jokes. "What about that judge? The one you said owes you a favor?"

"Judge Gold?" Regina asks with a shiver. How the hell does Swan know about that? "He does, but I'm not going to use it to unnecessarily violate someone's privacy." No, she's saving that favor for far more dire circumstances.

Circumstances she hopes never occur, but she knows better by now than to be unprepared.

"You told ADA Blanchard to use it to get a search warrant," Emma reminds her. "On my first day. I remember overhearing the conversation."

"Yes, dear, it's called a quip," Regina snaps. "It would take several hundred search warrants on impounded cars to repay the debt Gold owes me, and he and Miss Blanchard both know that. Would you kindly stop prattling on about subjects you don't understand and focus on the case?"

"I...um...yeah," Emma mumbles, looking appropriately chastened, and Regina feels a momentary pang of guilt for her harshness. She blames it on stress and lack of sleep, and it's hardly Emma's fault, but she just doesn't have the time or energy to discuss her personal business with the blonde right now.

Especially not personal business that, even after ten years of trying to put it behind her, still has the power to push her to the brink of tears in the middle of the squad room on a Monday morning.

"What about Glass?" Jones asks from across the room.

"What about him?"

Regina rolls her eyes. Leave it to the prize idiot to intrude on _her_ conversation with _her_ partner. Next, he's probably going to start flirting in the middle of the squad room, _again_. It's only eight in the morning and she already needs a stiff drink.

"Well, I'm just thinking," Jones begins slowly, and it takes all of Regina's self-control not to snap back, "Don't strain yourself." Pausing briefly, he cocks his head to one side and observes, "You're both women."

And there goes her restraint. "Excellent observation, Detective Jones. Truly, you have acute powers of deduction. The department should increase your pay grade."

Jones just rolls his eyes, too inured to her particular brand of cruelty to be hurt by it, but Swan looks slightly shocked, and perhaps even more offended than she already did, and Regina drops her head and bites her lower lip as she feels an unfamiliar churning in her stomach.

"As I was saying," the male detective continues as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened, "you're both women. You're not married, but pretend for a moment that you are, and you want to leave your husband because you're in love with someone else. What do you do?"

"File for divorce," Emma replies quickly.

"That seems like the reasonable thing to do. And it doesn't seem especially reasonable for the other guy to step in and murder your husband, right? Unless-"

"Unless there's something preventing you from leaving," Emma interrupts. "Like power, or fear, or-"

"Right, and if the 'other man' is the one who actually committed the crime, then, unless he's crazy, we can assume that he did it because he knew about whatever factors were keeping you tied to the marriage."

"The problem with all your assumptions is that people aren't reasonable," Emma argues, and Regina feels the corners of her lips curl upward with pride for her partner. Anyone listening in would have no idea she's just a rookie – she speaks with the confidence of a much more seasoned cop, and she's right, too. "Especially ones that commit murder."

"You're forgetting one thing," Emma interrupts. "If said 'other man' is actually in love with you, as Sidney Glass seems to be with Linda Billings, it seems unlikely that he would admit to something that could implicate you in a conspiracy to commit murder."

Jones shrugs. "I'd still say it's worth a try to take a crack at him. Sometimes the sort of passion that makes you willing to kill for someone starts to fade when you realize it also involves doing twenty-five to life for them."

"You speak from experience?" Emma jokes, and Regina rolls her eyes. She's not in the mood to hear any ridiculous flirting this early in the morning.

"Never had the pleasure, but I'm still looking. Anyway, he might not have to know he's implicating her. You can make him realize a jury will be much more sympathetic toward his case if we can paint the victim as a villain."

Regina lets out a disgruntled burst of air through her nose and pushes against the back of her chair. "I never thought I'd find myself agreeing with Detective Jones, but this is worth a shot. Let's set up a meeting with Glass and his attorney and decide how to proceed once we know the truth. Call ADA Blanchard."

Emma shrugs and picks up her phone, and Regina presses her eyelids together with a weary sigh. It's only eight-fifteen.

* * *

"Hello, Mr. Glass," Regina begins with an entirely fake smile, "thank you for agreeing to meet with us today." Walpole doesn't seem to have treated Glass well, even for the mere three days he's been inside. Absent his pristine suits that are worth more than Emma's car, his posture looks deflated, and the stubble growing across his jawline is gray, almost white, standing in sharp contrast to the black on top of his head. _Does he dye his hair?_

He looks like any other prisoner, a common criminal seated next to his immaculate lawyer. You'd never guess that three days ago, he was on the opposite side.

"Mr. Glass, we're willing to offer you a deal in exchange for answering a few questions," Mary Margaret says evenly. For someone who seems about as meek and mild as they come, the ADA doesn't show even the slightest hint of discomfort in the face of their grizzled suspect, and Emma has to commend her, because even she's shocked by Glass's prison transformation.

"A deal?" he barks, and Emma imagines her partner cringing on Blanchard's other side, remembering what the senior detective has said in the past about their ADA and deals.

"Yes, a deal," replies Mary Margaret. "A shorter sentence for the murder, and Detective Mills is willing to drop the assault charges if you cooperate with our investigation."

"That assault charge was bogus," Glass growls. "She came onto me! She-"

"Be careful, Mr. Glass," Regina scolds lightly, perfectly composed. "Who do you think a jury is going to believe? A decorated police detective, or a man who confessed to murdering his lover's husband with a snake?"

Glass's wild gaze alternates between Mills and Blanchard, and eventually he turns to his defense attorney and scowls. "I'll cooperate. What do you want?"

"Well, first, we'd like to confirm your story," Mary Margaret says, opening the case file to reveal a page of notes written in Regina's flowing, flawless penmanship. "You told Detectives Mills and Swan that you believed you were falling in love with Linda Billings. Is that correct?"

Glass nods.

"Then you stated that you wanted to take the relationship further, but her husband was standing in the way."

"Yes," he confirms verbally. "That's why I killed him."

Emma waits with bated breath for the ADA's next words. They'd practiced this multiple times on the car ride over. "How, exactly, was he standing in the way?" Mary Margaret asks.

Glass blinks and glances at his lawyer, who gives an almost imperceptible shrug. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean," he fumbles.

"The meaning is quite simple," Regina cuts in. "My colleague would like you to detail the precise actions, if any, that Senator Billings took to prevent your relationship with his wife."

"Actions?" Glass sputters. "They were married. I couldn't have an affair with a married woman. It's highly improper!"

"And murder isn't?" Emma snorts. If she wasn't already convinced this guy was lying, the words "highly improper" would have done it for her. "Wouldn't it have been much more 'proper' for Mrs. Billings to file for divorce?"

"Yes, Mr. Glass, isn't there a much more reasonable way to end a marriage, in which no one has to die? Did Mr. Billings really deserve that?"

"She...I..." Glass pauses to whisper something in his lawyer's ear. The defense attorney, an older gentleman who seems like he's been around the block a few times – in a tired way, rather than an intimidating way – looks perturbed and asks Mary Margaret for a few minutes alone with his client.

The three women file out of the prison conference room and watch through the sound-proofed window as Glass's lawyer speaks to him, waving his arms wildly in agitation. The suspect himself looks resolute. Whatever story he's telling, he's sticking to it.

"Poor fool," Regina mutters, crossing her arms over her chest and turning away from the scene with an exaggerated sigh.

"Regina, I think that's the nicest way I've ever heard you refer to a suspect," Mary Margaret laughs. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were going soft."

"Well, if _I_ didn't know any better, I'd say you had a death wish."

"There's something strangely ironic about making death threats _inside_ a prison, wouldn't you say?" Emma asks lightly.

"Shut your mouth, Detective Swan," Regina snaps. "Your peculiar humor is unfunny and unwelcome at this time!"

Eyes bulging, Emma takes a step back with her hands up in surrender as her partner turns to her with a stare blazing with a fury that's quickly turning to something deeper and darker she can't quite identify. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry. You don't have to-" she quickly stops herself from making an 'Evil Queen' comment because, in a reaction completely disproportionate to the idle remark that was its antecedent, the other woman seems suddenly on the verge of tears.

"I need to use the restroom," Regina suddenly spits out. "I'll be right back."

Emma and Mary Margaret stare dumbfounded at the older woman's back as she marches purposefully down the hallway. Turning to the ADA, Emma sees her own confusion reflected back perfectly in the pixie-haired woman's completely blank expression.

"What was that about?" she finally asks.

"She's _your_ partner."

Emma considers: should she go after her? Unfortunately, Glass's lawyer, looking more and more fatigued by the second, chooses that exact moment to call out that his client is ready to talk.

"Linda wouldn't have left her husband," Glass says. "She would have refused to file for divorce, and I couldn't ask that of her, so I took matters into my own hands."

"I see," Mary Margaret replies slowly. "And why is it that she would have refused?"

"Because she loved him, of course. She would have hated too much to break his heart, and I loved her too much to ask her to do that for me."

Emma exhales harshly and asks, "So, let me get this straight: you loved her, and you showed that by killing someone else that she loves? Because that really seems like a great way to win someone's heart."

"I had already won!" he exclaims. "But I wanted to save her the pain of having to choose."

Emma catches a glimpse of her own face in the two-way mirror and quickly tries to wipe derision from her features. Detective Mills, if she's out there, would surely find it incredibly unprofessional.

"That's your final answer, Mr. Glass?" Mary Margaret confirms, sympathetic tone completely gone from her voice.

"Yes. I killed Senator Billings for the woman I love."

"Right. Just so you know, your answers didn't satisfy me, so the deal is void," Mary Margaret says emotionlessly as she rises from the table. "I suppose I'll see you both in court."

* * *

"So, what do we do now?" Emma asks, once they've located Regina and safely merged onto I-95 on their way back into the city.

"You do nothing," the ADA replies. "And I prepare for trial – I'll probably start lining up an appointment for Glass with Dr. Hopper in anticipation of a 'not guilty by reason of mental defect' plea."

"You think he has one? A mental defect, I mean?"

"He's an idiot," Regina cuts in from the driver's seat, "in the social definition of the word, but probably not the clinical one."

"It's pretty standard in the defense lawyer playbook," Mary Margaret explains. "It's pretty much the next step when you can't plead innocent because they've already confessed. We'll get our own assessment and confirm that he's sane by every legal definition, and there shouldn't be too much of a problem."

"Okay, so what do we do about Mrs. Billings?"

"We do nothing," Regina says hollowly. "It's over. We're not going to get her, and maybe we shouldn't even want to."

Emma is about to ask – though she knows it might be at her own peril – what that's supposed to mean, but she's cut off by Regina's phone buzzing.

"Mills," the senior detective barks as she snatches the device from the cup-holder. "What is it, Locksley? Make it quick, because I'm driving."

Regina listens silently for a moment, and Emma is slightly disturbed by the fact that her face is growing progressively whiter as the lieutenant's monologue goes on. Finally, she mutters, "We'll be there," and hangs up with a shudder.

"What is it?"

"Shooting near the Mildred Ave Community Center. Five victims. It's going to be a long evening."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes and Warnings**: Hey guys, this chapter, and the next couple, might be rather dark and heavy. This one deals with the crime itself, and the next two focus on the aftermath and its effect on the detectives. This plotline involves **gang-related gun violence and deaths of children** and all applicable trigger and content warnings that come with that, and I'd be lying if I said it wasn't painful to write at times. This is not a happy part of the story.

* * *

Regina's announcement is met with stunned silence and devastated expressions from both of her passengers, and she debates with herself whether to reveal the rest of the information that the lieutenant shared with her. They say ignorance is bliss, and while the little knowledge they do have is certainly not blissful, maybe she should let them enjoy their ignorance for a few minutes longer.

But as she shoots a sidelong glance at her partner and remembers where the younger woman had been that very morning, she realizes that Emma needs advance warning.

Emma deserves advance warning.

This case is going to hurt.

Regina takes a deep breath and steels her nerves. Ruining people's days with horrible news is one of those things that gets smoother with practice but never easier. "The shooting is believed to be gang-related," she says through gritted teeth. "The victims...the victims were all middle school students on their way to an afterschool program."

She hears a sharp inhalation from the backseat, and Mary Margaret murmurs, "Oh good lord," but Regina ignores her, one eye still on the road and the other fixated on her partner.

Emma expels a small burst of air through her nose and looks down at her lap, saying nothing.

Every ounce of Regina's being longs to reach out and grasp the younger woman's hand. She can't even imagine what must be going through her mind right now – cases involving children are rough for everyone, she knows, but she's heard it's a million times worse when you have one of your own.

And this case...well, they aren't even at the scene yet and she knows it's bad.

Locksley had cried on the phone when he'd told her.

Locksley had barely even cried when his wife died.

If the man who had been the definition of stoicism and bravely pushing forward for the twenty-plus years she's known him is getting choked up over this situation, then what does it mean for the rest of them, mere mortals whose control over their emotions is not nearly so ironclad?

Her hand is itching to reach out, to offer comfort – though whether it's directed toward Emma or herself, she's uncertain – to find some solid ground in the senseless chaos that's rising rapidly around them, but she doesn't.

She doesn't because ADA Blanchard is behind them, and she's certainly not going to show even an instant of weakness in front of that insufferable woman who belongs to the David Nolan school of taking every opportunity to spew out rainbows and sunshine and hope.

Regina isn't even sure she knows what hope is anymore. Especially not when five children under the age of fifteen have just been shot dead in a place where they're supposed to be kept safe.

So, she drives on, hands clutching ten and two so tightly that sharp pains shoot through her ghost white fingers, watching in the rearview mirror through the corner of her eye as Mary Margaret buries her face in her hands and Emma stares numbly out the window at the evening that suddenly seems so much darker.

* * *

They pull up in front of the community center far too soon for Emma's liking. She watches as her partner and the ADA – "We don't have time to drop you off!" Regina had snapped, and Mary Margaret had simply nodded in understanding – exit the car and walk resolutely toward the crowd surrounding the yellow crime scene tape. Even through closed windows, she hears the frantic wails of children, of passerby.

Of mothers.

If she just stays here, shut safely inside the cruiser, maybe she can pretend it's not real. Keep her mind comfortably blank and forget that only a few inches of metal separate her from five dead kids and their grieving families.

She can forget what the world is constantly trying to remind her: that it's a cruel place where happiness can be ripped away more quickly and easily than it's found.

As quickly and easily as someone can pull the trigger of a gun.

Letting out a long, shaky breath, she opens the door and jogs to catch up to her partner, flashing her badge at the officer guarding the entrance to the crime scene and trying to avoid the dark, haunted eyes of the bystanders. She's sure her own will look like that soon enough.

Dr. Whale is standing over one of the bodies – _one_ of the bodies, she reminds herself, stomach rolling as she carefully averts her eyes – surrounded by Locksley, Jones, Nolan, and a whole bunch of uniformed officers she doesn't recognize. He nods in greeting as the two women approach, and quickly turns back to his work, the situation too grave for his typical lascivious remarks.

Locksley turns glassy eyes away from their fixation point on the victim's face and looks up at them."Five dead, ten injured," he rasps. "Critical victims have already been taken to the hospital, but we've got a few witnesses over by the EMT zone. They're pretty shaken up. Mills-"

"I'm on it," the senior detective says shortly, and if Emma hadn't already thoroughly felt the magnitude of this scene deep within her aching heart, she would have realized it as soon as she witnessed Regina following the lieutenant's orders without question.

"Swan, Nolan, you need to locate the families. Get positive IDs on the bodies and interview them about any possible gang connections." Nolan nods his assent and Emma numbly mirrors his actions.

"Jones, some officers just radioed in about a discarded gun located a block or two away. Make sure the crime lab gets to it right away and work with Booth back at the station to trace the owner. We need to nab this shooter. Yesterday."

Jones starts jogging toward one of the cruisers, and Emma turns toward Nolan to ask what's next just as Locksley mutters, "And as for me, here comes the press." She sees the flashbulbs going off in the distance and hears the rumble of voices talking all at once and scowls. There are times when she can't even believe the media's blatant disrespect for people's grief.

She watches as Locksley straightens his back and walks headlong into the flock of reporters, questions firing at him from all directions. There are considerably fewer, she notes, than there were after the senator's body was found, but it's still a sizable crowd. She imagines she might feel impressed at his composure if she were able to feel anything at all.

But she can't, so when Nolan bends over the body of the dead little boy – and he is little, only a few inches taller than Henry at most, she notes when she finally forces herself to look at him – and extracts a school I.D. from his pocket and reads aloud that his name was Michael Hernandez and he was in seventh grade, she only nods numbly instead of bursting into tears.

"We didn't get student I.D.s until high school, back in my day," Nolan remarks absentmindedly. "But I guess our security was a little looser."

Emma feels her head move in a nodding motion, but she's not listening. She bends over the next body, a tall, skinny girl with pink glasses, and rifles through her backpack. "Bria Lawrence," she says in a monotone, reading the name off the front of a notebook covered in doodles of animals. "Sixth grade."

"Fuck," Nolan mutters.

Emma glances at the paper still in her hand, a science test – "100%! Great job!" says the note in red at the top – and abruptly drops it, feeling it scorch her fingertips like a hot branding iron. But when she looks down at her skin, there's nothing there.

The pair makes quick and silent work of the next three bodies, two boys and one girl: Jerome, Oscar, and Ayana. Seventh and eighth graders. From the garbled wails she can pick up from the community center director's conversation with one of the officers, they were on their way to the meeting of some sort of academic club.

Good kids, Emma thinks sadly. Smart kids. Working their asses of to get the hell out of Mattapan.

Not that their intelligence makes the crime any more or less devastating.

"I'll try to get contact information from the community center," Emma offers, voice raspy and cracking in spite of her best efforts, "for their families. You try the school?"

"Yeah," Nolan agrees, squinting at Michael's I.D. card for his school's number. With a deep sigh, he pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and begins dialing.

Emma turns away and makes her way over to the director. She can't even imagine how the woman must be feeling, to have five kids murdered and ten more badly hurt while under her care. Not that any of it is her fault.

Maybe in this neighborhood, she's used to it.

Not that this is something you could ever get used to.

"Hi," she chokes out, extending a hand to the weeping woman and the officer who seems to have finished her interview but hasn't yet left. "I'm Detective Emma Swan. I'm...I was hoping to get the victims' parents' contact info."

"Officer Mulan Fa," the officer says solemnly after a quick glance toward the director confirms that she might not be up for talking any time soon. "This is Rita James; she's in charge of all the programming here."

"These kids have all been coming here for years," she older woman sobs. "I loved them like my own children. I can't...I can't believe..."

She breaks down again, and Officer Fa awkwardly reaches out to pat her on the back, a grim expression on her face.

"You okay?" Emma asks the younger woman, and she instantly regrets her words because the answer is blatantly obvious. Who could be "okay" at a time like this? But at least asking other people unnecessary questions distracts her from the tumultuous grief and anger twisting within her own gut.

Officer Fa shakes her head. "I've been working this neighborhood since I started out. I – I knew some of these kids, from the center. I teach here sometimes...self-defense. Not that any of it is actually helpful if some gang-banger decides to open fire at you for no reason other than being there." Pressing her lips together, she puts an arm around Ms. James's shoulder and gazes at the carnage of the scene with a disbelieving expression.

"Why?" Emma asks bleakly, the words coming out of her mouth before she can stop them.

The officer shrugs. "Fear? Vengeance?" she guesses. "The need to show dominance and victimize others before it can happen to you? I grew up not too far from here, in Dorchester, and gang violence is pretty standard in both places. The only other options are getting out or living your life in constant fear."

"But you chose a different path," Emma points out.

"Yeah, well, some of us hold onto the crazy idea that we can actually change things. Then stuff like this happens and...I'm not sure anymore." Shaking her head, she turns to the community center director and asks, "Ms. James, do you think you can look up the kids' contact information for Detective Swan so she can notify their families?"

Still choking back sobs, the older woman nods and beckons Emma and Officer Fa to follow her into the building, and Emma stands frozen for a moment because the reason she's seeking this information suddenly hits her like avalanche.

She has to notify their families.

* * *

There are three kids sitting on the bed of the ambulance as Regina approaches: two girls and one boy, wrapped in blankets, their eyes vacant and unseeing as EMTs tend to their wounds. These are the supposed "lucky" ones, the ones who had been out of range of the worst of the gunfire, their injuries too minor to warrant a trip to the hospital.

_Yes, aren't they so lucky_? Regina thinks. _Lucky to have watched their friends bleed to death right in front of them, unable to stop it._

The ghosts behind their eyes, ghosts that will remain long after the next act of violence, and the one after that, leave this one a tiny blip on the radar of most people's consciousness, tell a different tale. Perhaps the dead are the lucky ones. They don't have to watch the world continue spinning around them when their worlds have already ended.

She approaches the girl at the end, the one the EMTs have apparently finished with, and arranges her features into the expression she's always adopted when speaking to traumatized survivors: sympathetic without being overly emotional, and absolutely no fake smile. There's nothing more hurtful than a fake smile when your heart has just been ripped out of your chest and crushed into dust before your eyes.

"Hi, my name is Regina," she says softly, reaching out to shake the young girl's hand. "I'm a police officer. Can you tell me your name?"

"Michelle," she rasps.

"Hi, Michelle. Could you tell me about what happened?"

The girl raises her shoulders and gives such a pained expression that Regina longs to reach out and hug her tightly, but she stops herself. She has to stay professional, at least until the questions are over. She's not sure why that's such a struggle for her all of a sudden.

"We were walking to the center for Science Club," she begins slowly. "And then the car drove by. It was driving really slowly, and then they just started shooting at us. It was really loud. I hid behind that trash can over there," she explains, indicating a large barrel about thirty yards away on the sidewalk. "Then when it was over..." she dissolves in tears as she gazes at the bodies of the friends she had probably been laughing and joking with less than an hour before.

Regina rubs her back sympathetically. "Could you tell me anything about the car?" she asks. "Was it big, small? What color?"

"It was black," Michelle mumbles through her tears. "And just regular-sized, you know? It was just a normal car."

"Like a sedan?" Regina asks.

"Sure."

"Okay, what about the shooter? Or shooters? You said 'they.'"

"I didn't really see," the girl admits. "I just saw the car and heard the gun, and I hid because that's what we learned at school."

"There were two people in the car," the boy next to her interrupts. "I think one was driving and the other was shooting."

"Okay. Did you get a good look at either of them?"

The boy shakes his head. "I think the shooter was a man. Maybe black, but his skin was kind of light. Didn't see who was driving."

"Well, that helps a little," Regina says. "Thank you. What's your name?"

"I'm Kyle, and this is my sister, Andrea," he says, elbowing the girl beside him. She winces even at the light contact. The right side of her shirt is ripped and dirty like she dove onto the ground and landed with a pretty bad skid. She'll probably be bruised tomorrow, Regina notes.

"How about you, Andrea? Did you see anything?" Regina asks.

Andrea shakes her head. She looks younger than the other two – young and terrified. She stares down at her lap and doesn't even attempt to speak.

"Okay," Regina says slowly, reaching out to squeeze Andrea's trembling hand. "Thank you all for your help. We're going to do everything we can to find the people who did this to your friends."

Kyle gives a disbelieving snort, like he doesn't trust her for a second. She supposes he has a right. _How much violence has he seen, even at such a young age?_ she wonders. _And when have cops ever actually kept their word and fixed the problem?_

"I promise," she whispers, with as much sincerity as she can muster because she knows that they're just empty words. Because even though she won't sleep until the perpetrator has been captured and brought to justice, it ultimately won't make a difference. The world will keep turning and people will continue to do terrible things and children will have their innocence ripped away one by one until there's none left.

* * *

"So," Nolan mumbles, holding the list of addresses the director had given them far away from his face like he's afraid it's going to bite.

"So," Emma replies.

"Do you want to start from the address closest to the center and work our way out from there?" he asks, and she shrugs in silent agreement. Not that it really matters, because all of the kids lived within a few blocks anyway, but it feels better to have a plan.

Better is a relative term.

The first apartment they visit belongs to Bria, the girl with the science test in her backpack. Nolan raises his fist to tap on the door and pauses, turning to shoot Emma a panicked look which she returns.

"I've never felt more in over my head," he admits. "I keep thinking this is something I'll get used to, but...it just seems to get worse."

Emma nods. She momentarily wishes she was doing this with Regina instead and curses Locksley for separating them, although she's sure he had his reasons for assigning her where he did. Not that being with her real partner would make the situation any better, but she's realizing for the first time just how much Regina's presence steadies and calms her.

Nolan's a good cop, and a good guy, but in this moment he has no idea what he's doing any more than she does.

He exhales harshly and gives the door a tentative knock, and the complete dread in the eyes of the woman who answers is enough to make Emma's heart drop down to the pit of her stomach.

"Hello, I'm Detective David Nolan, and this is Detective Emma Swan," Nolan explains. "We're-"

"You're police," the woman interrupts frantically. "Is this about the shooting on Mildred Ave?"

Emma hears the sound of the TV in the background, turned to a local news show. Through the static, she can make out Locksley's voice urging anyone with information about the shooter to call an anonymous tip line. She can't do this. How do you tell a mother that her eleven year old was gunned down a quarter mile from her home? "Yes," she gulps. "This...are you-"

"My Bria, is she okay?"

"Ms. Lawrence, I'm so sorry. Your daughter-"

She doesn't manage to get any more words out because Bria's mother breaks down, starts wailing the word no over and over, and before Emma knows what's happening, her arms are around the woman and she's desperately trying to soothe her.

It's probably unprofessional and it's definitely futile, and she's never hated her job before, but right now she's fairly certain she'd rather be getting hit by a truck over and over again.

And the knowledge that the woman she's trying and failing to comfort feels much worse does little to help.

"Ma'am, I'm very sorry to have to ask you this," Nolan says quietly, pulling out a clear plastic evidence bag, "but we just need to confirm – is this your daughter's student ID?"

Ms. Lawrence takes one look at the ID card and sobs harder, her tears soaking the shoulder of Emma's most hated blazer, which Nolan takes as a yes. He drops his head and intones, in a way that seems almost practiced, "When you're ready, we'll need you to come down and-" his voice cracks, but he forces himself to continue "-and identify the body. And collect her belongings – her backpack. We...we have a grief counselor at the station you can – should – speak to."

"We're going to do everything we can to find whoever is responsible for this," Emma promises, quoting something she heard Regina say on her first day in homicide. She's never realized before how utterly empty those words sound: what does it matter? Finding the shooter won't bring five dead children back to life.

And the fact that it might prevent future murders is likely cold comfort for the families of those who have already been killed.

Bria's mother has collected herself somewhat. Lifting her head from Emma's shoulder, she sniffles, "She was going there – to the center – to study. She had science club with seventh and eighth graders."

"I saw her science test in her backpack. She was a very talented student."

"She wanted to be a vet. Get out of Mattapan...go to college...do something with her life."

The statement brings on a fresh wave of tears, and Emma feels her own heart break even more. "I'm so sorry," she says again, her voice coming out in a strangled whisper. "I can't even imagine what you must be going through right now."

"Can you come with us to the station?" Nolan asks gently.

Ms. Lawrence nods, following the detectives out the door with a vacant look in her eyes, the look of someone who has lost so much it's unfathomable.

"Do you have kids?" she asks abruptly.

Nolan shakes his head, and Emma swallows hard and says, "Yeah, one. He's ten."

"I tried so hard to keep her safe," the woman mumbles. "But in this neighborhood..."

"You can't," Emma finishes, feeling near tears herself at the recollection of the utter powerlessness that comes with the inability to protect your own child.

And then she curses her own weakness, because she's been privileged enough that those moments have been few and far between, and Henry may be far away from her right now, but he's alive and well and as safe as anyone possibly can be.

She'll call him tonight, whenever she gets a minute, in between telling the parents of the four remaining victims that they'll never get the chance to call their children again.

She wonders if it's too late to back out of this homicide gig.

She wonders if she'd ever forgive herself if she did.

* * *

_He's never liked naps. That should have been her first clue._

_But in the five years he's been alive, Henry has never had anything worse than a slight head cold, so when her son falls asleep on the couch after a busy Saturday morning at the playground, she simply shrugs it off and starts making preparations for a nutritious meal so Neal can't complain when he comes over later that evening for their "family dinner."_

_When he's still asleep an hour later, she's slightly concerned, but they had done a lot of running that morning, and he's a growing boy. It's not unreasonable that he would need some rest after all that._

_An hour after that, though, she's starting to get really worried, because Henry barely even sleeps for two hours at a time at night, let alone in the middle of the day. The kid has way too much energy and gets excited over every little thing. It's with some trepidation that she approaches the living room couch to gently lay a hand on his forehead, and she instantly panics when she feels his burning-hot skin._

_Heart racing, she sprints into the bathroom to find the thermometer she knows is in the medicine cabinet. The fancy ear one that Neal had bought after being scared half to death by an infomercial about meningitis. The one that they've never had to use before._

_With shaking hands, she fumbles to get the box open and pulls out the instruction manual, frantically questioning whether the whole thing is in Chinese or if she's simply forgotten how to read English._

_She has to calm down._

_She takes a deep breath and looks at the diagram and tries to reassure herself that it's simple enough. Turn it on, stick it in his ear, press the button, and wait for the beep. She can do this. She can be a mother. Kids have fevers all the time and they get better: she was always sick when she was younger and look how she turned out. Perfectly fine._

_She keeps murmuring the words "perfectly fine" over and over as she waits for the beeping noise to tell her the thermometer is ready._

_But once she hears it, she panics again because the reading is 106._

_One hundred and __six__?_

_How is that even possible? _

_She runs to the kitchen and opens the freezer, thanking whatever higher power exists in the world that there had been a sale on frozen vegetables at Market Basket that week. She grabs about seven packages of frozen peas and broccoli and piles them on top of Henry's sleeping form, which quickly wakes him up._

_"Momma...thirsty," he mumbles._

_"Yeah, kid, just wait one second and I'll get you something." Another mad dash into the kitchen, and she pulls out the entire six-pack of juice boxes she'd bought for his lunch at pre-K. "Drink as many of these as you can," she tells him, poking a straw into the first one for him. "You need to get lots of fluids."_

_He takes one sip and spits it out. "I hate apple juice!"_

_Emma sighs. Of all the times to suddenly become a picky eater. "Henry, you love apple juice."_

_"No! It's poison!" He throws the juice box across the room and bursts into tears. Emma blinks, terribly confused. Is this a fever thing? Is he hallucinating? What the hell is going on?_

_"Momma, I'm cold," Henry sobs. "Why is there a vegetable mountain on top of me?"_

_Emma orders him to stay under the ice packs, making up some story about hiding from an evil witch. When he seems to buy it, she breathes a sigh of relief and calls Neal._

_"Hey, what's up?__" he says immediately, picking up on only the second ring. __"I didn't expect to hear from you until tonight. Is everything okay?_

_"It's...no, it's not okay. Henry is sick."_

_"He's sick? He never gets sick," Neal says disbelievingly._

_"Well, he is. He has a temperature of one-oh-six."_

_"Wait, what? That's, like, hospital level! How did that even happen? He was fine this morning when I dropped him off, wasn't he?"_

_"Yes, he was!" Emma exclaims. "He was completely fine until a couple of hours ago when he decided to take a nap!"_

_"A nap?"_

_"Yeah, I know, but we were running around at the playground all day, so I figured he was just tired and..." Emma trails off, on the brink of tears. She knows that somehow, some way, she must have done something that caused this. It couldn't have been Neal, because he's the perfect responsible parent at all times._

_"Okay, well, don't freak out," he says slowly. "We'll just have to get him to the doctor. Your car's out of the shop, right?"_

_"Yeah," Emma breathes. "Yeah, I'll drive him to the ER right now."_

_"Somerville Hospital's closest to your place, right? I'll meet you there."_

_She hangs up and approaches Henry on the couch. "Hey, kid, we have to go to the hospital, okay? I'm gonna carry you to the car now."_

_"Okay," Henry murmurs. "Momma, it hurts to swallow."_

_"I know," she says softly, "but the doctors are gonna make it all better."_

_"And the witch won't catch me?"_

_"No way, you're safe as long as I'm protecting you," she assures him, wishing she could somehow guarantee her words were true. Henry nods and buries his face in her chest as she clutches him tightly against her, the residual heat from his body making her sweat. She quickly takes his temperature one more time before they leave, it's down to 105. Not great, she thinks, but better than nothing._

_She drives as fast as humanly possible to the hospital, where there miraculously isn't too long a wait in the emergency room. Neal jogs in breathlessly just as a bunch of nurses are taking Henry into a room to run some tests. He's acting pretty calm – calmer than her, anyway – but his eyes betray his fear._

_"What's going on?" he asks._

_"We're about to start a spinal tap," one of the hospital workers helpfully informs them. "To test for meningitis."_

_"Meningitis?" Neal gasps._

_"That's really bad, right?" Emma asks nervously. "How could he have gotten meningitis? He was fine this morning!"_

_The nurse shrugs. "He could have picked up a bacteria or virus at any point during the last few days and just started showing symptoms now. Does he go to school?"_

_"Yeah, pre-K, but wouldn't they have told us if there were any bad infections going around?" Neal demands. "Em, did you get any notices from the school this week?"_

_"No!" she exclaims. "I would have remembered something like that."_

_"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," the nurse says, trying to calm the storm she'd inadvertently created. "For all we know, it could be the flu or strep throat or any other kind of simple infection that just caused a high fever."_

_"Right, yeah." Neal takes a deep breath and tries to calm down. "We'll just have to wait for the test results."_

_Emma and Neal watch, terrified, as various medical personnel administer test after test to their son, who in spite of everything seems to be the most composed of any of them. In fact, the second people stop poking and prodding him, he falls asleep almost instantly. Finally, there's nothing left to do but wait. _

_Henry looks so small on the hospital bed, pale and clammy with IV tubes poking out of his arms. They've been administering fluids to him, and it seems to be working because his temperature is down to 100. _

_Still not awesome, Emma thinks, but better. She can live with better. Better is good._

_Beside her, Neal eventually drifts off to sleep, but Emma can't. She can't stop replaying the morning over and over again, searching for any abnormality that may have pointed to this impending illness, some sign that she could have prevented this._

_That Henry is sick because she was a bad mother._

_He hadn't eaten a whole lot, she remembers, but his eating habits have always been pretty erratic. He either eats everything in sight or nothing depending on his mood. And his energy level had been normal, maybe even higher than normal. _

_Kids get sick, she reminds herself. All kids get sick. She's seen at least twenty different kids in this very ER with all manner of infections and bumps and bruises. It happens._

_But she should have been able to prevent it from happening to hers._

_She continues berating herself for hours until a doctor comes back into the room, clipboard in hand and a reassuring smile on his face. "Good news. Spinal fluid came back clear," he says brightly. "Judging from the state of his throat, it seems like we're just looking at a bad case of strep. The results from the throat culture won't be back for another day or two, but we'll start him on antibiotics right away."_

_Emma lets out the breath she wasn't aware that she was holding and nudges Neal awake. "It's just strep?" she asks. "Does that usually come with such a high fever?"_

_The doctor shrugs. "Different people's bodies react differently. I'd like to keep him overnight for observation, but his fever is going down and it looks like he'll be just fine."_

_He'll be just fine._

_Those are the only words she hears as she collapses in tears onto Neal's shoulder. Her ex's stoic expression can't mask his obvious relief, and he awkwardly pats her on the back._

_"He'll probably be hungry when he wakes up," he observes. "Maybe I'll go pick up some pizza and popsicles?"_

_"I bet he'd like that."_

_Emma doesn't sleep a wink that night, watching over Henry as he breathes more easily and his fever slowly decreases as the antibiotics start working their magic. The next morning, he's discharged with two prescriptions and orders to get some rest. He practically skips out the door, refusing both of his parents' offers to carry him._

_This story has a happy ending, Emma thinks, buckling Henry into the backseat just as a morgue van pulls into the hospital parking lot. She hopes they'll always be so lucky._

* * *

"Gun's registered to James Marsden of Dedham," Jones says tiredly over the phone. "He reported it stolen a month ago. Nobody ever found it...until now."

"Wonderful," Locksley sighs.

Regina shoots a hopeful glance toward the lieutenant, but he shakes his head. Turning her face away so the twentieth witness she's spoken to in the last hour won't see her scowl, she barks at Officer Fa, "Call down to headquarters and see if they got anything on the tip line."

The younger woman jogs away, and Regina asks again – she can't remember if she's already asked this student or not – "Is there anything distinctive you can remember about the car?"

"The back door was scraped," the boy mentions. "It looked like somebody hit it."

"The back door," Regina writes carefully. "On the passenger's side?" Her witness looks confused, so she clarifies, "The side the shooter was on?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, good. Thank you, Darrell, that's very helpful."

"I noticed 'cause it was a really nice car," he says quietly. "It looked new, and it had that little peace sign on the hood."

"Peace sign..." Regina quickly searches on her phone for an image of the Mercedes logo. "Did it look anything like this."

"Yeah, that's it!"

"Update the description of the getaway vehicle," Regina calls to the officers standing by at the scene. "It's a Mercedes with a scratch on the rear passenger's side door." Then she turns to her young witness with a genuine smile and says, "Thank you so much for your help."

"We got something," Officer Fa hollers a few minutes later. "Patrol units found a car matching the description near Ashmont. Looks like gun residue on the front seat."

"ADA Blanchard, I need a search warrant for that car, ASAP," Regina orders.

"It's parked illegally," Officer Fa reports, still on the phone. "They want to know if they should tow it back to the station or wait and run surveillance."

"No one's going to be dumb enough to come back for it," Locksley cuts in. "Bring it back to the station and dust for prints. See if the crime lab can match the residue to the gun."

"Did Jones and Booth get any prints off the gun?" Regina asks.

"A couple partials, but they don't match the owner and they're not in the system."

"So, what, it's a first time criminal?" Officer Fa asks with raised eyebrows. "Most of the guys who would pull off this kind of shooting have been at it for a while."

"More likely, it was someone who's never been caught," Regina mutters.

Locksley's phone rings, and he glances at the screen with a grimace. "Commissioner. Wonderful. Regina, if anything comes up-"

"I've got it," she replies shortly. Of course she knows what to do, it _should_ be her job. Although why she's thinking about that at a time like this, who knows. She looks over her notes again and shakes her head. "I can't wait to get these guys," she remarks to Officer Fa.

The younger woman nods. "I've never been the type to look for revenge, or try to destroy people, or anything like that, but after today, I don't know."

"Human beings are horrible," Regina declares, "even the good ones."

Officer Fa just stares at her for a moment then says, "You're different than I expected."

* * *

"Car's owner has been located," Locksley reports. "It's looking like his son was the driver – Vince Brown. Officers are taking him in now to be questioned."

"Any luck on the shooter?" Regina asks.

"No, we're hoping the driver will give him up. Can you-"

"On my way," she interrupts, fishing for the car keys in her jacket pocket. "Where's my partner?"

"With Nolan, they're still talking to the families."

"Still?" Regina asks, appalled. Locksley shoots her a pained glance that she has to look away from. Of course it's taking a while – two detectives notifying five separate families. "I suppose I could take care of it on my own," she offers reluctantly.

"I'll send Swan down to the station as soon as she's finished," Locksley promises. "Or if you need backup, you can use Jones or Booth."

"I'll do no such thing."

"You won't need to," Emma's voice cuts in. "I'm back."

"Excellent. Swan, go with Mills. See if you can get Brown to give up the shooter. We're charging them both with first degree murder, but if he cooperates...well, either way, he's not getting less than life in prison."

Regina lets out a huff of air and motions of Emma to follow her to the car.

"I gather that Brown is the getaway driver?" the younger detective mumbles.

"That is correct. You look awful," she comments, taking in her partner's haggard appearance. "Are you alright?"

"No," Swan says shortly. "I just told five sets of parents that their kids died. Why, are you?"

"I have over thirteen years in homicide under my belt," Regina points out.

"Does that make it better or worse?"

"You have a point."

Regina starts the car, and Emma abruptly admits, "I wished I had your experience with me today. Nolan is – well, we did okay together, but still. Why would Locksley separate us?"

Regina feels her heart swell at the idea that Emma would have preferred to be with her, even for something so terribly unpleasant, but she quickly squashes the thought because it doesn't even begin to make sense. "I don't always agree with our esteemed lieutenant, but on this I do support him. Can you imagine Detective Jones bumbling through those notifications? You, on the other hand, are a parent, so one would presume you know how to speak to them."

"I don't know about that," Emma sighs. "I mean, is there even a right way to tell someone their child is dead?"

"Well, there's certainly a wrong way," Regina says. "Trust me."

She doesn't elaborate, and Emma doesn't pry. The blond is fidgety on the car ride, tapping her fingers against the window and compulsively putting her hair up and down. Finaly, she stops when her phone dings with an email notification.

"The case?" Regina asks.

"Yeah, information about the alleged driver, Vince Brown."

"What have we got?"

"His prints were on the wheel, and maybe the gun. It's only a partial match. The car is his father's, but he was driving it today. No alibi. They're getting photos of the car to the eyewitnesses now. He's nineteen, rich white kid, graduated from a fancy prep school but 'taking time off' before college."

"Probably a world-class idiot who spent the entire time drinking," Regina snorts. "I bet Daddy donated a new football field so he wouldn't fail out."

"Jones says he and Booth are coming up blank on any connections to the neighborhood that would provide a motive."

"It doesn't make sense," Regina agrees. "We've been operating on the assumption that this was gang-related, but why would a privileged white kid drive through the ghetto, shooting people from his father's Mercedes?"

Emma shrugs. "Don't ask me about what rich kids do for fun."

The two women drive the rest of the way to the station in silence.

* * *

The suspect is sitting in the interrogation room next to an older man who resembles him so closely that he must be his father.

"Looks like a punk," Emma comments, looking at the boys' outfit with distaste. "Who is he trying to be, Macklemore? What kind of dad wouldn't tell his kid to change?"

When no response comes from Regina, Emma turns to see that her partner's face has gone completely ashen.

"You know him?" she guesses.

"My mother tried to set me up with him. The father, not the son," she quickly clarifies.

Emma gags. "Not like that's any less gross. He looks, like, sixty-five or something. And not in a silver fox kind of way."

"My mother is clinically insane."

"Does this mean we have to be nice to him?" Emma asks. "I mean, since he's a rich family friend and all."

"He's responsible for five deaths. I don't care who he is," Regina says harshly. She thrusts open the door, taking both father and son by surprise.

"Mr. Brown, you are a legal adult, so there is no need for your father to be present for the interrogation."

"I'm his legal counsel," the older man insists. "And hello to you, too, Regina."

"First of all," Regina interrupts, voice cold with fury, "you will address me as Detective Mills. Second, given the charges against your son, you might consider hearing what we have to say before you give him more insipid legal advice."

"What are you offering?"

"Offering? I'm not offering anything. I'm merely informing you that we have your _client's_ prints in the car, eyewitnesses who saw it at the crime scene, no stolen vehicle report, no alibi, _and_ gunpowder on your client's pants," she finishes, pointing out the residue staining the right leg of the suspect's jeans.

His father flinches, obviously berating himself for not thinking of telling his moronic son to change clothes. "So?" he asks.

"So, your client is charged with five counts of first degree murder. That's life without parole. Unless, of course, there's solid evidence that someone else pulled the trigger."

"Then what?" the boy asks eagerly, and Emma wants to slap him.

"That depends."

The father whispers something in his son's ear. "Drop the charges to manslaughter," he demands.

At that, Emma explodes. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" she screams. "You helped shoot five innocent children. You're fucking lucky our state doesn't have the death penalty because-"

"Detective Swan, may we talk outside?" Regina interrupts in a strained tone. Emma snaps out of her rage with a start when she realizes that the senior detective is tugging on her arm, which is drawn back and ready to punch Brown in the face.

Without waiting for an answer, Regina tugs her out the door and hisses, "What are you thinking?"

"I-"

"You can't explode on suspects like that when they're about to cooperate! You could have screwed this up for us."

"I-"

"I know today has been tough, and I'm sure this case is hitting you on a personal level. I understand that, but you need to hold it together on the job, or you shouldn't be here. Go take a walk, get it out of your system, and I'll finish this up."

"But-"

"Go!"

Emma takes one look at her partner's unyielding expression, murmurs, "Okay," and flees down the hall.

* * *

Regina finds her partner half an hour later, punching a wall in an empty interrogation room.

"I'm sorry," Emma says quickly. "I lost my cool back there. It won't happen again."

"It will; you'll just learn to control it by taking up boxing or something. Some kind of safe outlet for your rage."

"You mean like making bitchy comments to your coworkers?" Emma remarks.

Regina's face falls. "Yes, exactly," she tries to joke. _Is that really what Emma thinks?_ she wonders. But then, what does she care if her coworkers think she's bitchy? She does her job; that's all that matters. She's not there to win Miss Congeniality.

"I just...he made me so angry. He killed five kids and doesn't think anything of it, and I spent the afternoon talking to their families, and-" voice cracking, she breaks off, looking dangerously close to tears.

"I know, and he's – well, he gave us what we needed, but he's not getting any deals. I don't care if I have to hold a gun to Blanchard's head; she's not pulling any of her rehabilitation crap on this one."

"I don't think she will," Emma says. "This case hit her hard, too. But isn't it kind of ironic that you're telling me not to hit people and then five seconds later talking about holding a gun to Mary Margaret's head?"

"Talking about it, not doing it. It's different." Regina sighs. "One thing you'll quickly learn, if you haven't already, is that standards of police brutality are different for us. If a male cop punches a suspect, he gets a slap on the wrist, maybe anger management classes depending on how IAB is feeling that day. But if a female cop does it, suddenly we're hormonal and hysterical and not emotionally fit to be in the line of duty."

"Sexism sucks," Emma groans. "Anyway, Brown gave up the shooter?"

"He says it's some gang member named Tony – no last name, but we got an address. Units are picking him up as we speak. Of course, now Brown is demanding police protection for turning him in."

"Are we going to give it to him?"

"Locksley's call. We do need him to stay alive long enough to testify, but...once he's in prison – and he _will_ go to prison – who knows what will happen? Anyway, it seems unlikely that this Tony is important enough to warrant Brown fearing for his life."

Emma shrugs, eyes distant. "I just don't understand how a person could do something like this," she says quietly. "They would need to have, like, no conscience or something."

"Evil," Regina murmurs. Her phone dings as a text from Nolan comes in, and she turns to her partner and asks, "Do you think you can handle an interrogation with gang-banger Tony?"

* * *

The detectives have all returned to the squad room, but the atmosphere is solemn, filled with none of the usual humor and camaraderie. Instead, it's as though a dark, cold fog fills the air, unseen but deeply felt. _Like dementors_, Emma thinks, recalling the Harry Potter books she used to read to Henry before bed. She stares at her lap, unwilling to meet the eyes of her coworkers, but a quick, stolen glance upward confirms that they are all doing the same.

It's Jones who breaks the silence first, muttering, "Case closed," in a tone entirely devoid of satisfaction.

"That was fast," remarks Mary Margaret. Emma briefly wonders what the ADA is still doing there before realizing that no one wants to be alone right now. "It's only 9:30."

Nolan shrugs. "Shooting in broad daylight, dozens of witnesses – pretty open and shut case."

"Right," Locksley says tiredly, poking his head out through his office door, "and I want everyone to go home. Arraignments are at nine in the morning. Paperwork can wait until tomorrow; you all need to rest and clear your heads. No exceptions," he adds with a firm stare directed toward the only detective who would protest such an order.

Emma watches her partner's face carefully. Under normal circumstances, she would expect anger, or at least irritation, but she sees neither. The change is barely perceptible, but it's there. Regina looks defeated, and Emma understands the feeling all too well right now.

She doesn't particularly want to go home, herself. It's not like she has anyone to return to; although for once, she's actually glad Henry is in New York. She has no idea how she would even begin to tell him about her day; she's not sure she's ever felt further from the hero he believes her to be. For just a second, she thinks that maybe she could invite Regina over, that they could ride out the pain and despair together, but she quickly pushes that idea out of her head. They're nowhere near close enough for that, and Regina likely has her evening routine all worked out, with no room for disturbances.

"Anyone interested in getting a drink together," Jones suggests bleakly. Emma lets out a humorless snort – he would suggest alcohol at a time like this. But she supposes it might not be the worst idea ever, getting drunk enough to forget.

Nolan exchanges a glance with the ADA and raises one shoulder. "Sure, it beats drinking alone. Swan, Mills, Locksley, you in?"

The lieutenant shakes his head. "I've got to get home."

"I'll go, I guess," Emma says noncommittally. The two male detectives nod and turn toward the door without waiting for Regina's response, which is sure to be negative.

"We can take my car," Blanchard offers. "It's down in the garage from this morning." She exits the squad room with Jones and Nolan, but Emma hangs back for a moment to talk to her partner.

"You want to come?" she offers.

Regina forces a smile that more closely resembles a grimace. "You know my policy on drinking with idiots. Why make a terrible day worse?"

"Okay, just checking," Emma replies weakly. "Have a good – well, have a not-too-awful night."

"Thank you, dear. You too, and make sure our moronic colleagues don't get themselves into too much trouble."

"Will do," the blonde promises, turning to leave.

She's about to walk out the door when Regina calls after her, "Emma! I...if you need anything, you have my number."

Emma raises an eyebrow in surprise. "Thanks," she says sincerely. "Right back at ya. And, um...are you planning on running tomorrow morning?"

"I'll be there at the usual time and place. Will I see you then?"

Emma flashes her partner a small smile before jogging out the door.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes**: Okay, so this is a part of the story that people may not like. Please heed Warning #3 in Chapter 1. I promise no one is actually going to get with any beards, but...you know. Trust me. Stay with me. No particular warnings on this one except a whole lot of drunkenness.

Also, I'm not the type who usually writes to a specific soundtrack, but if you are the type who likes to read to one, I recommend "Cruel and Clumsy" by Chris Pureka to accompany this chapter (possible trigger warning for references to suicide/self-harm in the lyrics, but none in the fic).

Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think! (My birthday's in two days; reviews make excellent presents...just saying :-P.)

* * *

Regina watches the door for a long time after Emma walks out of it. Then she sighs and stares at her desk, wondering if perhaps she should have followed. If maybe she could have shelved her pride just this once and spent unnecessary time with her coworkers instead of returning to her apartment alone with nothing but pain and liquor to keep her company.

But no, she's going home.

She's going to sleep in her own apartment tonight and pretend that she doesn't have ghosts as her bedmates.

She's going to, but she still hasn't left her chair by the time Locksley shuts the door to his office. She doesn't even notice that he's standing over her until he clears his throat awkwardly and snaps her out of her contemplation of wood patterns.

"I'm...I was just leaving," she mutters defensively, voice unusually raspy with fatigue and grief.

"Right, of course you were."

"I wasn't going to disobey the orders of my commanding officer."

"I know." He makes no movement toward the door.

"I can find my way out of here on my own. You don't have to babysit me."

"Never said I was."

"Okay, well, goodnight."

He still doesn't budge.

"What?" Regina demands.

"It's...um..." he looks down, almost as if he's embarrassed. "Roland's at Marian's parents' house tonight, but I was thinking I would go get him, and-"

Regina rolls her eyes and interrupts. "That's perfectly understandable, but you hardly need me to validate your plans."

"I thought maybe he'd like to see his Auntie Regina, and maybe you'd like-"

"I'd like what?"

"Company."

"I don't need company."

"I never said 'need.' I said 'would like.' It's different."

"Well, I neither want nor need _your_ company, but I suppose Roland is tolerable," Regina muses. There are voices in her head telling her that this is a horrible idea, that opening this can of worms again will only end in disaster, but there are other voices, strong ones, telling her that she needs this.

It's those voices, the ones telling her that just once she deserves not to be alone, that win out.

She gets up and follows him to the car.

* * *

Regina sits quietly in the passenger seat, fidgeting with the engagement ring she wears on a chain around her neck, uncertain and perhaps, if she's willing to let herself actually feel for a moment, slightly frightened of what will happen next. She shouldn't have come; hanging out with Locksley in times of emotional duress never ends well for her.

Robin seems to be having the same thoughts on the driver's side. He's still flipping between radio stations and muttering to himself. Finally, he settles on the Red Sox game and leans back uneasily in his seat.

"What? No football?" Regina asks.

He gives her a disbelieving stare. "It's not football season. Buckle your seatbelt."

Right, it's not football season. She knew that.

"So," she mumbles as they pull out of the parking garage, "how are Marian's parents these days?"

"They...they're fine." He looks like he wants to say something else, but he stops himself. "They're fine," he repeats.

"I imagine that spending time with Roland is helpful for them."

He smiles at that. "Yes, well, who doesn't like Roland?"

"Who doesn't?" Regina echoes, staring out the window. She has to admit she admires Robin for staying so close to Marian's parents. It's not easy – she hasn't spoken to Daniel's mother since his memorial service. But, then again, the situations are different. There's Roland. She wonders, if the baby had survived...

No, she can't think about that. Not tonight. Not when everything is already so raw.

_Five dead children. Five families torn apart. Dozens of innocents scarred for life from watching their friends die right in front of them. _ _Shot by some fucking punk asshole because he was bored._

It kind of makes her own pain pale in comparison.

"You didn't go to the bar with the others," Robin abruptly observes.

"No, I didn't, or I wouldn't be in your car right now. Obviously."

"I'm just...well, no, not surprised, but I thought maybe you might have wanted to keep an eye on Swan. After today, I mean."

"You think she can't handle a few drinks on her own?"

"No," he says carefully, "I just heard that she had a hard time today, questioning the suspect, and then with the nature of the case, and knowing how you feel about her-"

"How I feel about her?"

"You're...protective. I mean, it makes sense," he adds hurriedly. "She's a rookie, she's the only other woman in the unit, you two seem friendly-"

"She's a good partner. And yes, I look out for her, but Emma is a grown woman. She can take care of herself off the job."

_Can she?_ asks the needling voice in her head. If she and Locksley can barely keep it together with all of their experience dealing with their emotions on the job, what is it going to be like for a rookie? A rookie with a child of her own who she seems to spend about ninety-five percent of her time worrying about. And she's with Nolan and Jones, who – well, as much as Regina treats them like they don't have enough brain cells to feel deeply, obviously they do. They're human. This case is affecting everybody.

She should have gone.

No, she shouldn't have. Emma has told her before that she doesn't appreciate her protection. She's an adult who can handle her own demons.

She still should have gone, though, but maybe not just for Emma's benefit.

Lost in thought, she doesn't even notice that they've already changed neighborhoods. Robin parks the car in front of a dimly-lit 1970's style house that still looks the same as it did twelve years ago when they all came to Thanksgiving dinner here and she and Daniel and Marian and Robin simultaneously announced their engagements.

"You want to come in and say hi?" he offers.

"I – no. I don't think they really like me," she fumbles.

Robin rolls his eyes. "They like you just fine, but suit yourself. I'll be back in five."

He slams the door and jogs up the front steps, and Regina leans back with a tired sigh. She remembers the last time she was in this house, after Roland's christening. She and Robin had been called out on a case right as the party was about to start, and they had promised to redo the celebration at a later date. But then it kept getting postponed, and postponed, and then Marian had died and nothing seemed to matter much anymore.

She wonders if they still have the cake in the freezer.

Robin comes out five minutes later, as promised, carrying Roland and a Big Bird backpack. The little boy's face lights up in surprise and excitement when he sees her in the car, and she forces herself to smile and wave to him.

"Auntie Gina!" he exclaims, crawling across the backseat and diving into her waiting arms. "What are you doing here?"

"Hello to you, too," she chuckles.

"She's coming over to see you," Robin says with a wink. "Like a playdate."

"A playdate? But it's nighttime!"

"Well, I have to work all day, like your Daddy," Regina explains, "so this was the only time I could play. But if you'd rather I didn't come over..."

"No!" Roland wraps his tiny arms around her neck. "I want you to come! I was just s'prised."

"Okay, young man, let's get you buckled in so we can go home and play," Robin orders.

"I don't have bedtime tonight?"

"Not tonight. You can stay up and play with Auntie Regina for as long as you want."

He'll regret that in the morning, Regina thinks, but she understands the sentiment.

"What did you do with your grandparents today?" Regina asks as Robin starts the car again.

"We played at the dog park!" Roland says excitedly. "I got to see Bobo again and play catch! Then we went to the library. I got five books; you can read me them tonight."

"All five? Tonight?"

"You can do it. You're a good reader. Daddy, when can we get a dog? He can be Bobo's friend."

"I thought you're Bobo's friend."

He beams with pride. "I am, but I'm a people friend. He needs dog friends, too."

"Well, maybe Bobo's owner can work on getting him some dog friends, but that's not something we can do right now, Roland. You know that."

"Who's Bobo?" asks Regina.

"Rescue pit bull Roland met at the dog park. He's a little obsessed."

"He used to be really sick and grumpy," Roland pipes up. "But now he's better. He's my friend."

"I bet you're a really good friend to him," Regina tells the little boy. "Why would he need dog friends when he has you?"

"Because dogs need dog friends!" Roland exclaims, heaving an exaggerated sigh at the stupidity of adults. "And people need people friends, or they get lonely. I don't want Bobo to be lonely."

"I'm sure Bobo isn't lonely," Robin says firmly. "And you know that we can't get a dog. Let's talk about something else now."

Regina mouths, "Sorry," and Robin shrugs. "Tell me more about those books I'm supposed to read," she tries. That does the trick. Roland babbles about dragons and magic and knights with swords for the rest of the drive, and Regina leans her head against the window and half-listens, half-ruminates on the strangeness of her current situation.

When they arrive at the Locksleys' apartment, Roland sprints up the stairs in front of the two adults, giggling gleefully and clutching his backpack full of books.

"He's certainly happy," Regina remarks.

"Yeah, well, it's not every day he gets to ignore his bedtime and hang out with his favorite godmother."

"I'm reasonably sure I'm his only godmother, unless there's something you're not telling me."

"Regina, if this is too hard for you – I mean, after today-"

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm perfectly capable of reading bedtime stories to a young child – my emotional state isn't that fragile," Regina snaps, just as Roland is calling, "Daddy, Auntie Gina, hurry up!" from the front door.

"Besides," she adds softly, "at least _someone_ deserves to be happy tonight."

She settles in next to Roland on his bed. He presses his small, warm body against hers and gazes adoringly up at her face as she pulls a fleece blanket lightly over their legs and opens the first book.

Robin perches at the edge of the bed, on his son's other side, and she's about to start reading when his phone rings. Regina and Roland watch carefully as the lieutenant's face grows redder and more annoyed the more the person on the other end speaks.

Finally, he hangs up and scowls. "Commissioner."

"Did something come up?"

"I have to talk to some reporters. The case...says it will help raise awareness about gun violence in Mattapan."

Regina checks her watch and raises an eyebrow. "It's past ten."

"Yeah, it's for the eleven o'clock news. I-" he looks helplessly at Roland and Regina sighs.

"Go, we're okay," she says reassuringly. "Right, Roland?"

The little boy nods importantly and repeats, "We're okay." Robin chuckles and kisses his son's forehead.

"I'll be back before you know it," he promises. "You take good care of Auntie Regina, alright? Don't let her get into any trouble."

Roland smirks and sticks his thumb in his mouth, nestling into Regina's chest as she starts reading from a picture book about a baby dragon who can't fly. She pulls her knees up to rest the book on them so she can wrap her arm around his tiny shoulders. He seems to sense, in the way that small children do, that she needs him close, and presses himself even tighter into her side. Maybe it's weak of her to turn to a four year old for comfort, but right now, she doesn't care.

* * *

Emma fires off dart after dart, hoping that letting out her aggression on an old piece of cork will somehow take her mind of this nightmare of a day. But even after besting all challengers – the veteran male cops are a little bitter, to say the least – she still feels the same.

Powerless.

This isn't why she became a cop. She wanted to help people, not show up at their doorstep and tell them their children are dead. That's the opposite of helpful.

But then again, dead is beyond help.

Jones passes her another shot and she drinks it down immediately. She's not drunk yet – he is, but that's a different story – but she imagines she will be before the night is through. The bar feels different tonight; the air feels thicker, the lights darker. Jones and Nolan are sitting solemnly at the bar, staring at their glasses and not speaking. Beside them, Mary Margaret is playing with her straw and blinking repeatedly like she's trying not to cry.

Emma ducks out the door and pulls her phone from her pocket. Thankfully, Neal picks up right away.

"Hey, is everything okay?" he asks worriedly. "It's kind of late."

"It's...um..." Emma checks her watch and sighs. It's eleven. Henry's probably already in bed, or at least he should be. "Rough day," she admits. "Just wanted to check in, make sure everything is okay over there."

"Yeah, we're good. Henry's fine – no school, obviously, so he spent most of the day writing with Grace, and then we went for a bike ride."

Emma nods. Her voice catches in her throat as she tries to reply; she wishes, more than anything, that Henry was still in Boston. That she could leave this bar and go home and watch him sleep and see for her own eyes that he's safe and happy.

"How's their epic story coming along?" she finally asks.

"I'm not sure; I wasn't allowed to see their progress. But there are about fifteen new documents saved to my desktop, so I imagine it's going well."

"Cool," Emma mumbles. Then, so quietly she doesn't think Neal will even hear her, "I miss him."

He does hear. "It's been less than twenty-four hours," he points out reasonably. "You went this long without seeing him even when we all lived in Boston."

Emma feels a flare of white-hot anger in the pit of her stomach. "You know what, Neal?" she snaps. "Why don't you tell me how you feel the next time you go a month without seeing your kid – oh, wait, you don't have to!"

"What? I – Em, you said you were okay with the move to New York. And it's not like you can't come visit whenever you want to. We have a foldout couch and everything."

"I said I was okay because I didn't have much of a choice!" Emma explodes. "What the hell was I supposed to say?"

"Em, I didn't –"

"I can't do this right now. Just – just go give Henry a kiss for me and be grateful that you're not one of the five parents whose lives I had to destroy today by telling them their children got gunned down in broad daylight."

"Em-"

"Middle school students, Neal! Only a couple of years older than Henry. Walking a few blocks from their school to their community center. So, just...don't!"

Emma storms back into the bar and plops onto the stool next to Jones, slamming her phone hard on the counter. He passes her a shot of rum, which she drinks quickly before ordering another.

"Phone do something to piss you off?" he inquires.

"Just the person at the other end of it."

"Significant other?"

"_Ex-_significant other, of about ten years." Jones raises an eyebrow. "He's my son's father, and he has custody. So...yeah."

"I'm sorry."

"I mean, we're not – we get along okay," Emma clarifies, feeling vaguely guilty for saying anything against Neal when he's done absolutely nothing but be there for Henry when she couldn't be. It's hardly his fault that he's a man and she's a lesbian. "He's...he's not a bad guy or anything."

"I can't imagine the court would have awarded him custody if he was."

"Yeah, he's a good dad."

"That's rare, isn't it? For fathers to get custody," Jones muses, and Emma's face pales as her fingers tighten around her glass. He glances at her expression and seems to immediately realize his error. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"It's fine," Emma snaps, downing another shot. "It's also rare for mothers to be homicide detectives."

"That's true. I don't think anyone else in our unit has kids, except Locksley, of course. Even the old guard – did they, Dave?"

"No," Nolan mutters. "Pretty sure they're all planning to die alone."

"There you go," Jones says with a humorless chuckle. "Something to look forward to. Unless Mills has kids, but I don't believe she does."

"She doesn't."

Jones shrugs. "I was partners with that woman for six months and all I know about her is that she takes her coffee black, dresses well, and doesn't have much of a sense of humor."

"She likes running," Emma offers. "And...she kind of has a sense of humor. Sometimes." She does know a bit more information about Regina's life, but she doesn't share it. It somehow seems disloyal even though Jones could look it up on the Internet just as easily as she had.

"Yes, well, we've already established that Her Majesty likes you. That will make your life in homicide easier, although it certainly won't take the sting out of cases like these."

"Is there anything that does?"

Locksley's voice sounds from behind them, "I've yet to discover anything that actually works, although alcohol seems to offer a temporary solution at times."

"I thought you were going home," Nolan remarks.

The lieutenant sighs. "I did. Then I got a call to do an interview for the eleven o'clock news. I was informed that I was there to draw attention to the increasing gun violence in Boston, especially in Dorchester and Mattapan, but apparently the reporters were informed that I was there to gossip about the rich and famous."

"That sucks," mutters Emma, banging her glass against the bar in frustration.

"It does. My wife grew up in Mattapan, you know, not too far from where today's shooting happened. I had hoped...well, anyway, it doesn't matter. I'm going home now."

"You sure you don't want a drink, Lieutenant?" Jones asks, gesturing to the bartender to bring another round of rum.

"No, I've got to get – I really just came to check on everyone. I'll see you all tomorrow morning, hopefully not too hungover? Blanchard, I assume you're prepared for the arraignments? I don't want that scum let back on the streets."

"We'll be seeking remand," the ADA says quietly, her first words of the evening.

"Excellent." Locksley leans over and slips her a fifty dollar bill. "Make sure these clowns take cabs home, alright?"

She thinks he leaves after that, but she's not sure because she's too busy tipping back her glass and hating the fact that Locksley gets to go home to his kid and she's...well, here.

* * *

Roland falls asleep about halfway through story number three. Regina keeps reading for a few minutes, just to ensure that he's fully out, but he doesn't stir. She could stay like this forever, she thinks, watching him sleep so peacefully. He'd climbed onto her lap sometime during story number two, holding the book for her so she could focus on hugging him, one hand running lightly through his unruly and far-too-long hair. She feels his breath, long and slow, rustling her shirt as she watches his tiny chest rise and fall.

It was never supposed to be like this, she thinks. Roland was supposed to have a mother and siblings and an Uncle Daniel and family friends who were close enough to be siblings. He's happy enough the way things are, shuttled between his grandparents and his stressed out single dad and whatever friends Robin can get to help out in a pinch – he's never known anything else – but she can't help but look at him and think about the life he could have had.

The life he deserved.

The life they all deserved.

Suddenly, his embrace feels suffocating. Slowly, gently, and so very carefully, she lifts the little boy off of her lap and lies him on his pillow, nudging a stuffed animal into his arms so he won't notice the lack of contact. Thankfully, he barely blinks, and she tugs the blanket up to his chin before softly kissing his cheek.

He's smiling in his sleep – he always has ever since he was a baby - and she allows her finger to trace along the path of his dimples before standing up to check all the doors and windows of the apartment, gun in hand. Because Roland is the last bright spot left in the lives of their little group, the last reminder on a much happier past, and she'll be damned if she lets any harm come to him.

She finds one unlocked window in Robin's bedroom. It's near the fire escape, too – what the hell is he thinking? She reminds herself to have words with him about his lack of attention to safety before realizing that he might not actually want her in here.

It's not as though she hasn't been in his bedroom before. She's even slept here – spent her first few weeks out of the hospital nestled in between him and Marian while they tried, unsuccessfully, to soothe her through seemingly endless nightmares. _It was probably good practice for Roland_, she thinks wryly. But a lot has changed since then.

No, a lot has changed for Robin since then. Everything is the same for Regina; she's just better at keeping it inside.

The bedroom looks the same, though, except that the bed is neatly made like no one ever sleeps on it. It's the same as hers, in that way. It looks like a shrine to a person and a life that no longer exist. There's even a bottle of Marian's perfume, still sitting on the bedside table like it's just waiting for her to come back from some errands. Regina sprays a tiny squirt of it into the air and sniffs. It smells like wildflowers.

On her wedding day, Marian had worn a crown of daisies. The wedding had been up in Vermont, in a sunny meadow beside a forest, and the day before, Marian and Regina had gone out to gather the bouquets, frolicking barefoot through the grass like a couple of little girls and braiding flowers into each other's hair. It was a good day – a good weekend. The last happy memory she has of the four of them before the unthinkable happened.

There's a picture from the wedding, she remembers, in Roland's room. Almost all the pictures of Marian have been moved there, to a special spot on the bookshelf, because Roland likes to look at his Mama but Robin usually tries to avoid it.

Doing her best to stay silent, she shuts the door to Robin's room and returns to Roland's. He's still sound asleep.

She takes the picture in her hands, holding it reverently like the priceless object it is. She has the same one in her own apartment, but it's tucked into a corner and she almost always averts her eyes when she passes it. Now, she's looking hungrily, grasping for any sense of reality from a past that feels like it was another lifetime.

They look so young, she marvels. She barely recognizes herself, smiling brightly at the camera without a single worry line marring her rounded face. Despite being significantly heavier – she was six months pregnant at the time – she looks lighter, carefree. Not yet weighed down with a world of pain. Robin, too. It's amazing how much he's aged in the past couple of years. Even Marian, by the time she'd died, hadn't looked quite as youthful as she does in this photo.

And Daniel – well, he never got the chance to look older. He had died only five days later. And with him had died that version of Regina.

* * *

_Regina takes a long sip of her lemonade and quickly smooths her dress down as the breeze attempts to pick it up yet again and expose her to the entire crowd at the reception. Leave it to the Locksleys to pick the windiest day of the summer to get married in a shelterless meadow. She's never been the biggest fan of dresses – they're not particularly comfortable for chasing down suspects and they remind her of when her mother used to dress her – but she's developed a reluctant appreciation for them as her pregnancy has progressed. There's something to be said for a garment that doesn't squeeze around the middle._

_"And now, for their first dance as husband and wife, I present Robin and Marian Locksley!" Daniel announces with uncharacteristic flair. He may have started a little early on the champagne, Regina thinks with a chuckle. He's been overexcited about this wedding for the last three weeks, dubbing it a "practice session" for their own. Never mind that they haven't even picked a date yet - the impending birth of their child provides a rather important distraction._

_Grinning, he hands the microphone to Robin's high school friend John and makes his way over to where she's standing in wait, her own smile so wide it's starting to make her face hurt. "See, I told you I would make a great DJ," he brags, distracting her with a kiss on the nose as he swipes the lemonade out of her hands. _

_"Yes, you said one sentence into a microphone. Well done, dear," she deadpans, but she can't keep a tiny giggle from escaping as he presses their foreheads together and starts singing along to the opening lines of "I Got You Babe."_

_"Stop," she hisses, playfully smacking his arm. "You'll ruin their first dance with your awful singing."_

_"Not a chance," he laughs. "Look at those two idiots. I don't think they even know there's anyone else on the planet right now. I'd almost say they're adorable if they hadn't stolen our song." It's true – Regina's breath catches in her throat as her heart melts at the pure love shining from both Marian and Robin's eyes._

_"We're going to look just like that at ours," Daniel whispers in her ear, lacing their fingers together so he can play with the engagement ring that's recently gotten quite a bit snugger. "But with a different song, now, obviously."_

_"Maybe we shouldn't worry about picking a song when we don't even have a wedding date," Regina points out._

_"So, let's set one and start planning this thing!" Daniel says enthusiastically. "My only requirement is that it's not so damn windy."_

_"Daniel," Regina whispers, "not today, please?" She looks down at the bump that seems to be growing bigger by the day and rubs one hand against the spot the baby's been kicking repeatedly all afternoon._

_"I know you want to wait," he says sympathetically, "but once the baby's born, we'll be so busy taking care of him, and then you'll eventually go back to work and have even less time, and then we'll find something else to keep us busy, and then..."_

_"Daniel," she says again, lifting her hands to cup his cheeks and staring pleadingly into his soft blue eyes, "you know I want nothing more than to marry you, I just..."_

_"I know." He deposits the lemonade glass on the nearest table and runs his fingertips gently up and down her arms. "And as much as I enjoy giving you a hard time, you know it doesn't matter to me at all. I'm going to stick with you no matter how long it takes to make it official." His gaze never wavering from hers, he tugs her left hand towards his lips and tenderly kisses each fingertip before repeating the same action with the right. "I love you, and I'm in this for the long haul."_

_"Me, too," she husks, her voice barely a whisper as she fights back tears. "I love you so much." Wrapping her arms around the back of his neck, she rocks onto her toes and presses a soft kiss onto his lips. He smiles and reaches around to rub her back, and she hums softly, safe and warm and content in his embrace._

_They're forced to break apart when the other guests start applauding as the closing notes of Sonny and Cher fade away. Robin takes an overly dramatic bow, and Marian rolls her eyes and pretends to slap him._

_"Those crazy kids," Daniel mutters._

_"Everyone feel free to join us on the dance floor," Marian says when John hands her the microphone. Robin snatches it away and adds, "That includes our best man and maid of honor, if they're not too busy making out in the corner like a bunch of teenagers."_

_Regina blushes, and Daniel offers her his hand and asks with affected formality, "May I have this dance?"_

_"I don't know, I was kind of enjoying making out in the corner like teenagers," she grumbles, but she allows Daniel to twirl her around as they make their way toward their friends. _

_"So, do pregnancy hormones make all women absurdly touchy-feely, or is it just you?" Robin asks when they get closer. _

_Marian elbows him in the ribs and, smirking, announces, "Ladies and gentlemen, my husband and his amazing social skills."_

_"Yeah, good luck with that," Daniel laughs. "Although I must say I'm quite enjoying her newfound touchy-feely side. It makes up for the increased crankiness."_

_"Shut up and hold me!" Regina whines before bursting into laughter._

_"The lady has spoken, Daniel," Robin declares. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I'm supposed to take my mother-in-law for a twirl. This should be interesting."_

_"Well, shall we?" Daniel asks, sliding his arms around her waist and swaying them in time to the next sappy slow song Robin and Marian have selected. Sighing happily, she leans against him and loses herself in the moment and in his love._

_There's a break in the music when the guests all gather around to watch Robin and Marian cut the cake, and Regina looks up at her fiancé and says, "Daniel, I'm sorry."_

_"Sorry? For what?" he asks, slinging an arm around her shoulders as they walk sedately over to their table._

_"For being so...you know."_

_"Uncertain?"_

_Regina looks down. "I'm certain about you," she murmurs. "It's just everything else."_

_He stops her, takes both of her hands, and squeezes tightly. "You're going to be a great mother," he promises._

_"You don't know that."_

_"I do know that."_

_"Daniel..."_

_"Everything is going to be fine," he says with quiet confidence. "Everything."_

_"You always say that."_

_"And I've always been right, so maybe you should trust me for once in your life." _

_"I do trust you," protests Regina._

_"But?" he prompts. "There's a 'but' in there somewhere."_

_"I don't know," Regina says in a whisper, turning away as a few droplets leak softly out of her eyes. "I don't know."_

_"You don't trust yourself," Daniel says knowingly, "but that's okay, because I trust you enough for the both of us."_

_"Daniel-"_

_"You're going to be an amazing mother, and we're both going to love baby Henry so much, and he's going to be safe and happy always, even if he does end up taking after you and your worrying nature."_

_"How can you be sure?"_

_"Because I am."_

_Regina shakes her head. "But the future is-"_

_"The future is in the future." Daniel cuts her off and presses a kiss to her temple. "For now, let's just focus on enjoying this wedding, okay? I won't mention ours again until you bring it up first."_

_Nestling into Daniel's chest, Regina allows a few tears to fall – his suit is getting dry-cleaned tomorrow anyway – and whispers, "I love you so much."_

_"I love you, too, and I believe in you. Even if you don't."_

_"I want to," Regina chokes out. "I want to believe."_

_"I know," he says softly. "And someday, you will."_

_Hours of dancing and toasts and cake eating later, Regina is exiting the restroom when Daniel pops up next to her and wraps her in his arms again. The night air has grown cooler, even in the middle of June, and she welcomes his warmth gladly, snuggling comfortably against his chest._

_"Hey, the park rangers are saying everyone has to get out soon so they can set up for the school group tomorrow. Want to have one last dance before we go?"_

_Regina winces. She'd like nothing more than to dance the night away with him, but her feet and back are killing her, and, if she's being honest with herself, she needs to lie down. Before she even has to reply, Daniel kisses the top of her forehead and says, "It's okay. Let's wish the Locksleys safe travels and head home."_

_She inhales sharply as he swings around and hoists her up, but once the shock has worn off and she's certain he can support her weight, she happily relaxes into him, serenaded by the chirping of crickets and the strong beat of his heart. She's practically asleep by the time they get to the car, and the only thought in her mind as she drifts off is how much she loves this man and how lucky she is to spend the rest of her life with him._

* * *

"I've always liked that picture," Locksley remarks, and Regina jumps nearly three feet in the air.

"Robin!" she gasps, heart pounding so hard she's afraid her chest might explode, leaving angry red stains all over the eggshell carpet. "I didn't hear you come in."

"Yeah, that was obvious. I'm sorry; I didn't mean to sneak up on you."

"It's fine," Regina replies, in what she hopes is a breezy tone. "How was the press conference? Seems like it went...quickly."

"I called it off. Assholes kept fishing for gossip about the senator and that creep Glass and didn't even remember that five children were brutally murdered today."

"Of course," Regina mutters. "Who cares about a couple more dead ghetto kids?" Her eyes briefly drift upwards toward Robin's face to see how intently he's staring his wedding photo – at Marian. She had grown up in that neighborhood, Regina remembers. Perhaps she had even gone to that very community center. "Robin, I-"

"I stopped by the bar briefly to check on the others," he says abruptly. "Nolan, Jones, Swan...they're in a pretty bad way."

Regina sighs. Of course they are. She'd prefer to be blacked-out, herself, and she's almost certain Locksley would, too. "You could have stayed, you know," she offers. "I'm fine with watching Roland, if you want to go out and get a drink."

"I want to get several, but I didn't invite you over to my house for free babysitting."

"Oh?" What on earth does that mean? Her mind is racing – what does he hope to get out of this? They've tried comfort sex before, and it went poorly. Extremely poorly. "Why...why did you invite me over, then?" she asks slowly, hoping her voice doesn't waver.

"I was hoping we could talk, the way we used to. Like friends."

"Friends?"

"Yes, we used to be friends, remember?" he asks, gesturing to the photo in her hands. "Quite good friends, actually, if my mind isn't deceiving me."

"Yes, we were. And then one day we were both naked, and you told me you were becoming my boss, and I didn't feel especially friendly toward you anymore."

"I know," he sighs, running one hand tiredly through his hair. "And, Regina, I'm so incredibly sorry about that, and if I had any way to make it up to you, I would go through hell to do so." God, he looks exhausted, Regina thinks. There are lines crisscrossing the skin beside his eyes that weren't there this morning, and whatever shaggy beard he's attempting to grow has developed some gray patches, practically overnight. He looks as old as she feels.

"Maybe...maybe I just need to get over it," she ventures carefully. Yes, he had hurt her. But he's also the only person still living who truly understands her, and whom she understands in return, and right now, when the world seems at its most incomprehensible, maybe that matters more.

"You don't have to. You trusted me with your friendship and I betrayed that trust.

"No more than I betrayed myself."

She stares at the picture again, at the glowing young woman in the arms of her beloved, wearing a brilliant smile of joy for her best friends' happiness and excitement for her future. It's a blissful smile, a hopeful smile. The smile of someone who is living rather than waiting to die.

The smile of someone she no longer remembers how to be.

She feels Robin's hand rest gently on her shoulder, and she lets it stay there.

"Do you think those crazy kids ever had any idea they'd be us in ten years?"

She tries to laugh, but it won't come out. "I think...I think Marian might have. She was always a little wiser than the rest of us."

"Yeah, she was," Robin agrees. Losing half of your family to gang-violence before the age of eighteen will do that to you, Regina thinks, remembering with a sickening pang of guilt why she was the sole bridesmaid at that wedding.

"Daniel..." she continues, voice cracking and then trailing off. There's not a chance that Daniel, grinning from ear to ear with his cheek pressed against the top of Regina's head and his hands resting on her belly where the baby, she recalls, had been kicking up a storm that day, knew he'd be dead less than a week later. She wonders, if they had known, what would they have done differently?

She wouldn't have said no to that last dance, she thinks, a sob rising painfully in her chest. She would have held him close as they swayed under the light of the stars until the sun came up, ignoring the soreness in her feet that was absolutely nothing in comparison to the sheer agony she's been carrying in her heart ever since she lost him.

She would have set a damned date for the wedding.

She feels the tears begin streaming down her cheeks before she can stop them, and then Robin's arms are around her, small droplets – _his_ tears, she realizes – landing on the top of her head, and she presses her face into his shoulder and pulls him closer, praying that somehow, in spite of everything that's happened to and between them, they can perhaps still manage to ground each other even as the ground feels like it's caving in.

"You were right, you know," he sniffs. "What you told me that night – I still remember. The pain fades, but the loneliness..."

"The loneliness gets worse," she recalls. Fighting back her remaining tears, she dries her eyes by rubbing them against Robin's sleeve.

"I need a drink," Robin says abruptly. "Would you care to join me?"

Without waiting for a reply, he extracts himself from the embrace and strides out toward the kitchen, one hand swiping furiously at his cheeks. Regina slowly exhales and gently restores the photo to its place, turning her head to check on the little boy who is still sleeping peacefully in his bed, unaware of the incredible sadness weighting the air around him. She presses a gentle kiss on his forehead, watching as he smiles in his sleep without so much as a stir, and makes her way to the window.

Slowly, she pushes it open and leans outward, inhaling the cool night air and gazing up at the stars, so brilliant tonight even with all the lights of the city below them. She remembers looking up at the stars as a child, filled with wonderment at the unfathomable infinity of the universe. Tonight, millions, maybe billions of other children will be doing the same, staring at the night sky and thinking of their dreams, perhaps making a wish for their future, blissfully unaware that the future may never come for them.

And for five of them, it won't. Five children will never wish upon a star again.

Robin reappears by her side with two tumblers of whiskey, one full and one half-empty like he's been drinking on the way over. He hands her the full one and looks up. "Clear night tonight," he remarks. Regina nods. "When I was a kid, my parents used to take us for vacation in Western Mass. We had this cabin on top of a mountain, and it was so dark up there at night, with no one else around, and you could see so many stars. I used to just lie out on the grass and stare at them, and think about how small and insignificant we all are in the grand scheme of things. And yet, everything that happens in our lives feels so monumental."

"I used to do something similar."

"And then days like today happen, and I get that feeling again," he says sadly, shaking his head. "Like nothing I do even matters."

"It matters to him," Regina points out, jerking her head toward Roland.

"It matters to him," Robin agrees, raising his glass as if in toast. "To Roland."

Regina clinks their glasses together and adds, "And Marian."

"And Daniel...and Henry."

"And Ayana, Jerome, Oscar, Michael, and Bria," Regina finishes. They both take a long swig of whiskey, grimacing at the burning sensation as it slides down their throats. The stars seems to twinkle brighter for just an instant, and Regina thinks she might even see one shooting across the sky, though perhaps that's just exhaustion causing her vision to blur. Anyway, she doesn't try to make a wish. It's not like they ever come true.

"I...um...I think I'm going to sleep in here tonight," Robin mumbles after a few minutes. "Just...well, you know, I want to..."

"I'll stay and help you protect him," Regina offers. "That is, if you don't mind."

"No, not at all. It's just...are you sure?"

"I'll stay with you," Regina says with an air of finality, "because that's what friends do."

"Friends? Are we friends again?"

"Tonight we are; we can reevaluate tomorrow morning."

"Sounds good," Robin says with a small smile. "Friends don't let friends get drunk and depressed alone?"

"Something like that."

They turn back to the little boy curled on his bed, one arm wrapped around a stuffed monkey while the other holds his thumb in his mouth, and Robin takes another sip while lifting his other arm around Regina's shoulders. She leans into him, eyes never leaving Roland. Although she feels full of warmth from the alcohol in her stomach and the body pressed against her, it never quite reaches her heart.

_The pain fades, but the loneliness only gets worse._

* * *

"That first mother," Emma tells Mary Margaret, words slurring slightly as all the alcohol she's consumed gradually makes its way through her bloodstream up to her brain, "it was like the second she opened the door and saw it was cops, she knew."

"You've said that. Several times now," the ADA informs her, awkwardly patting the drunk and morose detective on the back.

"Sorry," Emma mumbles.

"It's okay, it's just-"

"She knew her kid was dead. And I just...I'm just going over and over it in my head. The look on her face – what it must feel like in that moment. The moment you realize you're entire world's been ripped apart, just like that." She shakes her head and shudders, finding it all too easy to put herself in the other woman's shoes. The alcohol was supposed to numb her emotions, not unlock even more of them.

"I can't imagine," Mary Margaret says sadly, "but I don't think dwelling on it is particularly healthy."

Emma isn't listening. "I should call my son again," she says abruptly. She needs Henry. She needs him like she needs oxygen, even though she's supposed to be the mother and he's the child, and he's the one who's supposed to need her. "This time I'll _make_ Neal let me talk to him."

Not that she had even asked the first time, the still-reasonable part of her brain points out. Because she knew he'd be asleep. She was being a responsible parent.

Blanchard checks her watch. "It's one in the morning. And you probably don't want him to talk to you like this."

"Like what?"

"Well, you're drunk."

Emma stops and puts down the phone she was about to unlock as a sinking realization washes over her. "Am I a horrible parent?" she asks.

"What? No, not at all. I mean...I don't think so. I've never actually seen-"

"What kind of woman picks her job over her child?" Emma asks, feeling a sob rise up in her chest. She fights to keep it down. "Like, seriously, I just let his dad take him to New York without me. Who does that?" She starts to consider all the ways she could right this situation. She could go to South Station right now, take the first bus down to New York and bring Henry back with her by tomorrow night.

When she starts to voice these ideas, though, Mary Margaret looks alarmed. They barely know each other, after all, and yet she's somehow the one stuck in this position. "I'm sure you were trying to do what was best for him, and when you wake up tomorrow, you'll realize that you did. I'm sure Henry knows that you love him," the ADA says slowly. "But, for now, I think we need to start getting everybody home. We do have to work in the morning."

Emma blinks and tries to refocus, but it's hard to keep one thought in her head for more than a couple of seconds – except, naturally, for the unwelcome ones. Obviously, she can't go kidnap Henry. He's happy in New York, she reminds herself. She tried to give him his best chance, and she succeeded. He knows she loves him. He does. And she needs to get some fucking sleep. "Yeah," she croaks. "Where are the guys?"

They find Jones standing in the doorway of the men's room watching over Nolan, who is vomiting repeatedly into the toilet.

"I guess he had a bit more than usual," he mutters.

"It's been a long night," Emma agrees. Her head is starting to feel like a freight train is running right through it.

Mary Margaret sighs and runs a hand through her short hair. "Okay," she says decisively after a moment of consideration. "I'm going to take him home and make sure he's okay for the night. You two-" she reaches into her purse and pulls out the cash Locksley had slipped her before "-are going to take a cab home. Together, alone, I don't care. But you will _not_ be driving. Understand?"

"Yes, mother," Jones mutters. Emma flashes the ADA a small but genuine smile and nods, grabbing Jones's arm and pulling him toward the door. At least one of them is keeping her shit together.

"Where do you live?" she asks tiredly.

"I'm all the way out in Cambridge, by Kendall Square."

"I'm in that same direction. Want to split a cab to the station and go our separate ways from there? Save money?"

He agrees, and as they get in the cab, he chuckles humorlessly and says, "What do you think Dave and the ADA are going to get up to tonight?"

Emma rolls her eyes. "My guess is nothing. He's probably going to pass out and she's going to make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit. A real romantic evening."

"You never know," Jones says with a shrug. "Comfort sex is a real thing. People lose their inhibitions when a tragic event happens."

"Yeah," Emma argues, "but Mary Margaret is not going to take advantage of David when he's drunk off his ass, and he's probably not up for it, anyway."

"What about you?" he asks.

"I – what?" He's leaning in close to her, too close, and he smells like rum and sweat, and he will probably regret this tomorrow morning when he's sober.

"You. Are you up for it?"

"Dude," she says, leaning away and wrinkling her nose, "no. I – I'm gay."

This could go one of several ways, she thinks apprehensively, wondering how in the hell this day ended with her fending off the advances of her drunken coworker and coming out to him. She braces herself for the worst.

It doesn't happen. "Oh," he says slowly, blinking in confusion and backing up like he suddenly realized just how uncomfortably close they were. "I didn't – I had no idea. I – I'm really sorry."

She shrugs. As he said, people lose their inhibitions when something tragic happens. "Don't be. I mean, of all the horrible things that happened today, that doesn't even rank in the top ten." She'd thought, at seven in the morning, that putting Henry on the train back to New York was the worst thing that would happen. How horribly wrong she had been.

Jones settles back into his seat and shakes his head vigorously like he's trying to clear it. "You really miss your son, don't you?"

Emma nods her head and squeezes her eyelids shut. She won't cry in a cab. She won't. "Every day. But...at least he's still alive, you know? Like, I could do something about it, if I wanted to."

"So why don't you?"

Emma exhales heavily and buries her face in her hands. "I don't know," she mumbles. "I just don't know."


	8. Chapter 8

Hi, lovely readers! Thank you so much for all of your comments on the last chapter (and all the birthday wishes!). I've gotten so much support for this story, and it's making me really overwhelmingly happy. I think by now I've replied to everyone who left feedback, but if I somehow missed you, please know that I appreciate every comment I've received. On that note, I'm sorry this chapter took a little longer than usual and has something you might not like at the beginning (hopefully the end makes up for it).

**WARNING**: mention of sex with slightly dubious consent (due to alcohol)

* * *

Emma wakes to the sound of birds loudly chirping from her phone and curses her son for changing her alarm to something so irritating and then herself for setting it to so absurdly early an hour. She's pretty sure the high-pitched squeaking is going to make her head split in two.

With a loud grunt, she rolls over to turn it off and instantly freezes when she feels something underneath her.

It's another body.

Emma tries to stop herself from gasping as she takes in her surroundings. This is not her bed. The sheets and blankets are a different material. This is also definitely not her bedroom, she realizes as her eyes slowly adjust to the darkness. And the person in bed with her...oh, good lord. She hadn't slept with Jones, had she? He's the last person she remembers. She feels bile rise in her throat at the thought – he's her _coworker_ and friend and a man and...it's just not possible. No matter how drunk she was, she wouldn't have done _that_.

No, it's a woman. She's lying on her side, so only half of her face is visible, but Emma is virtually certain she's never seen this woman before. That's good, she supposes. Not great, obviously, but at least it's a little bit less embarrassing. She has dark hair, long and curly; she's pretty in kind of a harsh way. _Who the hell is she?_

Well, the first order of business is to make sure her unexpected bedfellow doesn't wake up before she figures it out, Emma concludes, fumbling for her phone to turn off the impossibly loud alarm. She breathes a sigh of relief when it's finally silenced and the other woman hasn't so much as stirred. She's a heavy sleeper, thankfully. She probably won't notice anyone escaping through the window, then. But first, she has to find her clothes, because the first thing she notices when she lifts the comforter is that she's completely naked. Not that she's particularly surprised, given the circumstances, but it's still not a terribly heartening realization.

She locates yesterday's suit on the floor at the foot of the bed. It reeks of booze – she should probably drop it off at the cleaners' on the way to work today. Work. She needs to get some hardcore caffeine in her system before she even thinks about that. Slipping into her clothes as quickly and gracefully as she possibly can with the dim light and a head that feels full of bricks and cotton, she takes one last look at the woman she'd apparently slept with before opening the window to climb down the fire escape.

The blanket slips off her bare shoulder, and Emma notices a tattoo in the shape of an anchor on it. _An anchor?_ she muses. _Why..._and then the night comes back to her with a sickening clarity.

* * *

_"You know," Jones mentions as the taxi pulls into a residential neighborhood and starts to slow down, "I've got a lesbian sister."_

_Emma shrugs. "Good for you?"_

_"Her name is Milah," he continues, "and she's single. We live together."_

_"That's nice. Why are – wait, you're not trying to set me up, are you?"_

_"Possibly. I was just thinking, you know, she and I tend to be into the same type of woman, and-"_

_"I'm not...I'm not looking for a relationship," Emma stammers, "especially not tonight."_

_"I'm not suggesting a relationship, love. Just a momentary distraction - something to get your mind off today."_

_"I thought that was what the rum was for," Emma groans, wondering at the mess her emotions have already managed to get her into. _

_"Sometimes rum isn't enough; you've got to do something else to blow off steam."_

_Blow off steam? Where had she heard that expression before?_

_"And you think I should blow off some steam with your sister? That has to be the weirdest thing anyone's ever said to me."_

_Jones looks confused. "Why? Because I was just hitting on you?"_

_"Among other things."_

_"That was before I knew you batted for the other team. Now, I realize I can't give you the experience you desire, but I do know someone who can."_

_"Aren't brothers supposed to be...oh, I don't know...protective? Aren't you supposed to think no one's good enough for your sister and, like, defend her with a pistol in hand, or something?"_

_"You've never met my sister," Jones says with a loud snort. "She'd never stand for that."_

* * *

Emma sighs and looks longingly at the open window. She can't believe she had allowed herself to be convinced that this was a good idea. Her coworker's sister? What the hell? She can't just climb out the window now – Milah herself would probably be fine with it (she had seemed very well-versed in the art of one night stands), but Killian would likely not take kindly to her sneaking out on his sister, and he's the one she has to work with.

Her electronic bluebirds start their infernal chirping again, and a message pops up on her screen reminding her that she's supposed to meet Regina at the river in five minutes.

Groaning and rubbing her aching head, Emma wonders whose wrath she can better afford: Killian's for ditching his sister, or Regina's for ditching their run. She's supposed to be an adult – a homicide detective and a mother. How is she still getting herself into these ridiculous situations? This is why she only sees her son once a month.

She spies a pen on the bedside table and makes her decision. She grabs a receipt from her wallet and scrawls a note on the back:

_Dear Milah_,

No, she can't write "dear." This isn't a pen-pal letter and she's not in the seventh grade.

_Milah_ – _Thanks for a great_

A great night? A fun night? It was neither of those things, although that was hardly Milah's fault. If anything, she had made it marginally better by providing a couple hours of entertainment and an emotionally neutral place to sleep, though Emma is now regretting taking her up on either of those things.

Milah will totally understand if she sneaks out without leaving a note. Right? And Killian...he was so drunk last night that maybe he won't remember that he brought her home in the first place. Well, she can hope, anyway.

* * *

_"Milah, meet Emma Swan," Killian announces, opening his apartment door with a flourish. The woman sitting in front of the TV promptly stands up and makes her way over the Emma with one hand outstretched and the other holding a beer. _

_Looking the blonde up and down, she wolf-whistles and says appreciatively, "My brother didn't exaggerate. You are gorgeous."_

_Emma shoots Killian a slightly confused and irritated look – why the hell has he been talking about her with his sister? – and gives Milah a once-over of her own. She's tall, with long brown hair, attractive in a way that screams sexy rather than classically beautiful, and her shorts and tank-top leave little to the imagination._

_She looks...well, if Emma had known that Detective Jones had a sister, this is just about how she would have expected her to look._

_"We had a tough case today," he's informing her now. "And Emma was thinking she'd like to...let out her frustrations...with a lovely lady."_

_Milah raises her eyebrows. "What are you, my pimp?" she asks her brother. Turning quickly to Emma, she adds, "By the way, in case you have any friends in Vice, I'm not a prostitute, though I have nothing but respect for adult sex-workers who are in the profession by choice."_

_"Um..." Emma looks around and wonders if she's even been in such an odd situation. "Yeah, sure. Power to them," she mutters._

_"Well, I'm going downstairs to see if Tink's busy," Killian announces. "You two enjoy each other's company."_

_He stumbles slightly on his way out the door, and Milah smirks. "I'm sorry you have to work with my disaster of a brother," she says sympathetically. "He does have a good heart, though, under all the layers of idiocy."_

_"Yeah, I know," Emma says with a small smile. "I've seen it every now and again."_

_"Please tell me he didn't just abruptly invite you over to meet me after hitting on you and finding out you were a lesbian."_

_"I could tell you that, but it would be a lie, because that's pretty much exactly how it happened."_

_Milah sighs, though there's still a playful twinkle in her eyes that's a bit similar to her brother's. "I'm sorry, our parents really did teach us manners. But I guess the lessons didn't stick for certain people."_

_"It's alright," Emma quickly reassures the other woman. "He didn't...we're..."_

_"He's drunk off his ass; you're not doing so well yourself; it was a hard day. Yeah, I get it."_

_"Cool. Well, anyway, I-" Emma checks her watch and feels her eyebrows shoot to the top of her forehead. "I'll stop bothering you and head home."_

_"Thanks for putting up with my brother's matchmaking efforts," Milah says gratefully. "You should go home and get some sleep. Or, if home is far, you can always crash here."_

_"I don't really know how much sleep I'll be getting tonight," Emma mumbles._

_"Your case bothering you?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"Stay, then," Milah orders. "I was about to find a movie to watch. You like beer?"_

_"Who doesn't like beer? But don't _you_ have to sleep?"_

_"Jet lag," Milah says with a grimace, grabbing a beer from the fridge and quickly making her way back to the couch. She motions for her guest to sit down beside her and hands over a bottle of fancy European microbrew that Emma doesn't even recognize. "Just got back from a job in Germany – my whole body's out of whack."_

_"What do you do?" Emma asks curiously, taking a small sip of the beer. It's good. And strong._

_"Photography, landscape and architecture stuff – mostly freelance, but I get pretty regular work with this one travel magazine, New Harbors."_

_"Nice. If you like to travel, I guess."_

_"I love to travel. I'd like to see the entire world, if I could."_

_"Then it seems like you're in the right field," Emma comments. "Is that what your tattoo is for? Like, sailing off to new harbors? Anchors aweigh?"_

_"Oh, this?" Milah points to the anchor on her shoulder and shakes her head. "It's more for 'Anchors Aweigh,' as in the Navy fight song. It's for my brother. Not Killian," she adds quickly. "Our older brother. He was in the Navy."_

_"Oh," Emma says softly, deducing that the oldest Jones must have passed on for his sister to be getting tattoos for him. "I'm...sorry."_

_Milah shrugs. "He died in the service of our country, which is what he always wanted. Strange thing to want, if you ask me, but I don't think he had any regrets when he went. Killian took it hard, though; they were really close."_

_"He's never spoken about it. I mean, not that he would necessarily have told me – we've only known each other for a little while."_

_"Yeah, he doesn't like to talk about it, but I've found it helps."_

_"Probably healthier than drinking," Emma says under her breath._

_"Cheers to that," Milah sighs, clinking their beer bottles together. After a moment of drinking in silence, she turns back to Emma and asks, "How about you? Any siblings?"_

_"No. Well, none that I know of anyway." Seeing Milah's confused look, she explains, "I grew up in the foster system and never met my family, so anyone I meet could be my sibling, basically. I did have a couple dozen foster siblings over the course of my career, though."_

_"That's really fascinating." Milah's eyes are lit up with interest, and Emma wonders if all the alcohol in her system is confusing her, or if that comment really was as far out of left field as she had imagined it._

_"What?"_

_"I mean, not that you grew up in foster care. That sounds shitty. I just mean the idea that anyone could be your sibling."_

_"It is, I guess. Or sort of awkward."_

_"At least as a cop, you have access to DNA testing equipment," Milah points out. "You should probably check every time you're about to pursue any kind of intimate relationship with someone."_

_"This is a really strange conversation to have when less than an hour ago, your brother was suggesting you and I have sex."_

_"True, and if we want to pursue that train of thought, we should probably stop talking about siblings in general."_

_"Do we?" Emma asks. "Want to pursue it?"_

_Milah leans her head to one side, considering, then places her beer bottle on the floor. She reaches up with both hands to cup Emma's cheeks and draws their faces closer together._

_"I don't know. Do you?"_

_Emma's mouth is dry and part of her wants to run, but instead she leans in closer and lets Milah bring their lips together. Gently at first, but it's Emma who makes it more aggressive, her mouth desperate and hungry. She slips her tongue quickly in for a taste, and Milah sort of moans, and she tastes like beer – they both probably do – and she's not even particularly attracted to this woman, but there are hands touching her body and it feels good enough to flip the off switch on her common sense, and she finds herself tackling the brunette to the couch, hands reaching under the thin straps of her top to slip them off her shoulders._

_"Bedroom," Milah grunts, pushing Emma up and leading her by the elbow through an open door. She's completely stripped down by the time they make it to the bed, and she eagerly helps Emma out of her work suit before pushing her onto the bed, her mouth exploring every inch of the blonde's mouth as her fingers creep slowly down her bare torso. _

_What follows is nothing either of them will want to write ballads about, but it helps Emma forget, and she thinks that perhaps that's all that matters._

* * *

_And so, here we are,_ thinks Emma, looking down at her wrinkled suit in distaste and wishing she could take a shower sooner rather than later to rid herself of the pervading smell of sex and alcohol. What the hell was she thinking last night?

She notices that she has a missed call from Neal – why the hell is he up so early? – and remembers with horror that she had called him and said a lot of things that weren't particularly friendly or mature.

True, yesterday was shit, she wasn't in the best frame of mind, and all the drinking certainly didn't help. Still, she can't help but feel terribly ashamed that she allowed it to get this out of hand, that she had spent an entire night trying to forget the five children whose memories she should be trying to honor.

And Henry – what would Henry think of her right now?

She takes one disgusted look in the mirror over Milah's bureau and, without a backward glance at the woman herself, quickly climbs out the window and down the fire escape before vomiting in one of the curbside trashcans. Thankfully, she recognizes the neighborhood. It's about a ten minute walk from her house – maybe seven if she jogs it. She can rinse off and maybe even meet Regina for part of their morning run, if she feels any better after a cold shower and some Gatorade.

Pretend that it's an absolutely normal day and she didn't just potentially fuck up two or three of her very important relationships.

It's not until she's halfway home that she realizes she left the half-finished note on Milah's bedside table.

* * *

Regina checks her watch and purses her lips in annoyance. It's 5:05. Emma is late. Sighing, she replays their conversation from the night before over and over in her mind. The blonde had never _explicitly_ said she was coming, Regina reminds herself. And Locksley had mentioned that the group at the bar wasn't doing well. Emma probably wouldn't turn up for a ten-mile run at five in the morning after a night of heavy drinking. Every ounce of reason says that she shouldn't be waiting. It's not as if she ever waits for anyone. She doesn't even enjoy running with a partner, anyway.

So, she takes off. She blames the heaviness in her heart on yesterday's shooting, and if she's running at a slower pace than usual, it must be due to lack of sleep. (Never mind that she'd slept better last night, on the floor beside Roland's bed, than she had in over a year, even if it was just four hours.) She's not worried about Emma.

Maybe she should call her.

No, that's a horrible idea. If the younger woman is sleeping – as Regina assumes she must be – such a call would be unwelcome and unappreciated. Besides, she's _not_ worried.

Busy with her internal debate, she almost doesn't notice the figure who runs up alongside her. At least, not until that person says, "'Morning, partner," and almost gives her a heart attack.

"Detective Swan!" Regina gasps. "I mean, Emma. I...you...you're late," she stammers as she struggles to get her breathing back under control.

"Yeah, sorry about that," Emma mumbles, and Regina allows herself to break stride and look up at her partner for a moment. She looks terrible.

"Are you in any condition to be running?" Regina asks disbelievingly.

"I...I don't know. I'm hoping I can, like, sweat out the hangover."

Regina chuckles halfheartedly. "I'm not sure it works like that."

"Well, anyway, if I start to slow you down, you can just leave me behind. Usual deal."

"I'm feeling a little lethargic this morning, myself. We can run slowly."

Emma raises her eyebrows, and Regina wonders for a moment if the younger detective had caught her in a lie, but then she simply shrugs and continues jogging. "Rough night for you, too?"

"In a manner of speaking," Regina admits. "Probably not the same kind of rough night you had."

Emma blushes and looks down at her feet in shame. "I was just so upset," she mutters. "And then I drank too much and..."

"Happens to all of us, dear." The younger woman lets out a grunt of disbelief. "Really," Regina insists. "The key is to just keep moving forward."

The pair continue running in silence. They only make five slow, painful miles, but Emma comments at the end of it – clutching her aching head – that it feels like an accomplishment, and Regina allows herself to give her partner an awkward pat on the shoulder and tell her that it is. If she feels something vaguely like a jolt of electricity shooting up her arm and through her body at the contact, she tells herself it's because Emma doesn't know how to use dryer sheets.

* * *

Regina insists on taking Emma to the arraignment.

"I know we don't usually go, but I think you'll feel better seeing these two idiots start to face justice," the senior detective declares after verifying that everything is quiet at the station. "We don't have much else going on this morning."

Emma shrugs and nods her agreement, following her partner to the car. "Regina, thanks for being so understanding," she says quietly. "About this morning, and our run, and..."

"Don't mention it."

So she doesn't, but there's still a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, something like guilt. Like she's done something she definitely shouldn't have. Which she has; it's just that Regina is, in fact, probably one of the last on the list of people to whom Emma Swan currently owes an apology.

What's alarming is the fact that there's a list.

She doesn't say anything for the remainder of the drive, and Regina doesn't try to make conversation either, seemingly unaware of her partner's continuing attempts to bob for air in a sea of her own regret. There's no noise from the inside of the car, not even music - Regina never plays any, and in the beginning, Emma was too afraid to ask; now it would just be awkward. Emma wonders, briefly, when the sound of an ambulance outside distracts her from the litany of all the people she's potentially hurt in the past twenty-four hours, what kinds of things Regina thinks about when she's silent like this. Actually, most of the time she's not sure what Regina is thinking about even when she's talking. _Probably a bunch of really smart things followed by bragging to herself about how much better she is than everyone else, _Emma thinks, feeling her lips curl upwards into a ghost of a smirk.

"We're here," Regina says suddenly, pulling into the courthouse parking lot. At only 8:30 in the morning, it's already packed with press vans, and people with microphones and cameras are swarming the front steps.

"Shit," mutters Emma.

Regina opens the door and straightens her shoulders like she's getting ready to march into battle. "Get ready to use your elbows," she advises.

Speechless, Emma nods vigorously and follows Regina up and into the building, head carefully lowered and elbows jutting outwards. In spite of her small stature, or maybe because of it, Detective Mills is an expert at clearing paths through large crowds of people, and it's all Emma can to do hurry behind her and try not to get lost in the shuffle.

"Detective Mills, do you have a comment about the Mildred Ave shooting?" someone cries out, thrusting a microphone into her face, but it's shoved aside before the question is even complete.

"Wow, you're...well, you never cease to amaze me. Let's just leave it at that," Emma says appreciatively once they're safely inside the courtroom, where press and cameras are thankfully prohibited.

Regina smiles and uncharacteristically ducks her head. "Thank you, dear, that's quite the compliment," she murmurs.

"Good morning," says Mary Margaret. She seems much more subdued than usual, and her eyes lack their usual sparkle - probably a combination of sadness and exhaustion, like the rest of them - but there's a determined set in her jaw that gives Emma a surge of confidence. The ADA means business.

Emma manages to flash her a small smile, but Regina keeps it to a short grunt of acknowledgement and a stiff "Hello, Miss Blanchard."

The growing crowd of lawyers and spectators all rise to their feet as Judge Gold enters the court, and Emma looks on eagerly to catch a glimpse of the enigmatic judge the entire Boston Police Department seems to think is the most intimidating man in the city. Emma's had to testify in a few cases throughout her career, but nothing big enough to warrant entering _his_ courtroom.

"Toto, we're not in Computer Crimes anymore," Emma mumbles, narrowing her eyes as the two shooting suspects are led into the courtroom. Neither one looks the slightest bit remorseful, and she thinks it might be nice to punch those blasé expressions right off their faces. Or perhaps to take her own gun and-

"Emma, sit down," Regina hisses. Judge Gold is banging his gavel and calling for order. Mary Margaret gives the two detectives a grim nod and approaches the bench.

* * *

"Half a million dollars," Emma whistles as they reenter the squad room. "That's pretty high, isn't it?"

Regina grimaces. "It is, but it's nothing the Browns can't handle. Vince won't spend another night in jail; I can almost guarantee it. They've probably got enough in the bank to bail Tony out, too, but they won't."

"That's absurd."

"What, that they won't pay Tony's bail? Why would they?"

"Not that," Emma snaps. Regina raises one eyebrow at her tone – probably the angriest she's ever heard her partner. "Why would they bail out their dumb kid who's responsible for five deaths?"

"Well, they're not going to let their son sit in jail," she says in surprise. "Even if they didn't love him, it's all about status. They'll probably make a big show of having him do community service, show he's an upstanding citizen who's trying to do better."

Emma scowls and presses her fists against the top of her desk. "He deserves to sit in jail," she mutters. "He deserves every single terrible thing they could do to him in there. Both of them do."

"Maybe," Regina agrees quietly. "But you might not feel the same way if it was your son."

"If he was guilty? Yeah, you better believe I would!" Emma exclaims. "Loving someone doesn't mean you forgive everything horrible they do. He has to pay for his crimes."

"And he will," Regina says reassuringly. "He'll go to trial – there's no way he's getting off."

"He could," Emma argues. "You said it yourself – he has a super rich family, high status, whatever. Maybe Judge Gold owes them a favor, too. People like that get away with shit all the time. No offense," she adds quickly.

Regina sighs and runs a hand through her hair. "None taken," she mumbles, because she hasn't counted herself among "people like that" for a very long time, although Emma clearly does. She won't deny that it hurts, that she doesn't want her partner to lump her together with their reprehensible murder suspect just because of her family's income level, but it's far from the greatest source of pain in her life and it's not important right now.

"Anyway," she says in as calm a voice as she can muster, "I imagine that the type of parents who would bail their son out of jail for being an accessory to murder are the same type who would raise a son capable of such a thing in the first place. I don't – I don't know...Henry." She hopes and prays that Emma doesn't notice the way her voice cracks when she says the boy's name. "But I have to assume that you and...you and his father have been teaching him actual values."

Emma nods. "That's the goal, anyway."

Both woman exhale and stand together in silence, and Regina finds herself reaching tentatively across the space between them to grasp her partner's hand. There's that jolt again – someone really needs to educate Emma on the proper way to do laundry – and Regina feels a tiny shiver travel up her arm and down her spine as she suddenly becomes aware of the close proximity of her shoulder to Emma's and the heat radiating from the younger woman's body. This is not at all how she intended the gesture to turn out. She quickly loosens her hand to release them from this terribly awkward contact, but Emma holds on tighter.

Regina looks up to meet Emma's eyes, glassy and shining with unshed tears, and she feels her heart tugging in her chest, drawing her closer. She thinks that perhaps whatever strangeness she's feeling now is worth it if Emma is somehow finding comfort and solace from this. From her. She wants this, she realizes. She wants to be the one Emma turns to for support, the one who keeps her afloat when the waters get too high.

She offers the blonde a tiny smile and lets herself absorb the warmth that enters her chest when it's returned.

And then, at the sound of approaching footsteps, she reluctantly drops Emma's hand and shakes herself out of her lovely trance. It must be the exhaustion addling her brain - maybe she can get Dr. Hopper to prescribe those sleeping pills again.

"They're about to show something about the shooting on Channel 11," Nolan mumbles. He has an extra large coffee in his hand and he's squinting against the glare of the fluorescent lights on the white walls and floor. Jones follows, looking slightly better off than his partner but not much.

Regina reaches for the remote and flips on the ancient TV in the corner of the room. "How uplifting," she comments.

The segment is short, a clip of Locksley's interview from the previous night, some footage from the courtroom of the two defendants being escorted away in handcuffs, then a newscaster saying something about a memorial service for the victims being held near the community center that night.

"We should go, pay our respects," Nolan comments, and the other detectives nod their agreement.

"Honor their memories in a productive way, for a change," Emma says under her breath before meeting Jones's eyes across the room. There's something in the glance they exchange – a change in atmosphere. Regina feels it, and she's sure Nolan would, too, if he weren't quite so out of it.

"We should-"

"Yeah," Jones says quickly. "Not here." He motions for Emma to follow him into the hall where they commence a whispered discussion that's perhaps not as quiet as they might have intended. Regina's not eavesdropping – she swears she's not.

And once she's heard it, she really wishes she hadn't.

"About last night," Emma begins guiltily.

"Never happened. I've erased it from my memory, as should you."

"Good. And it will never happen again."

Jones shrugs, stepping back into the doorway. "If that's what you want. It's probably a good idea."

"It can't. It's...I'm really sorry-"

"Don't mention it. No harm done. It was a bad night for everyone and, well...ill-thought-out one night stands happen. No offense was taken, I assure you."

"That's good," Emma says, breathing a sigh of relief and staring down at her feet. "I just...I feel so stupid," she mumbles. Suddenly, her shoots drift upward to meet Regina's, and her lips part in horror as she notices that both her partner and Jones's – Nolan has somehow drifted out of his fog and is staring at the pair with a mixture of shock and disgust – have heard every word, or at least enough to draw their own conclusions.

Emma turns away and flees the room, and Nolan stares helplessly at her retreating form before turning to his partner and demanding, "What the hell happened last night?"

"Nothing. Nothing happened."

"That's not what it sounded like. _Something_ happened between you and Swan last night."

"Absolutely nothing happened between me and Swan," Jones reiterates angrily, "which you would have known if you hadn't spent the night puking on Mary Margaret."

"And _you_ spent the night with our ADA? How unprofessional can the two of you get?" Regina sneers. Not that she's really in any place to criticize. But they don't have to know that, and she's too blinded by rage to acknowledge it. "The four of you, really."

"Mary Margaret and – you know what, it's not important," Nolan says tiredly. "Last night was...maybe we should all just collectively erase last night from our memories."

"I'm surprised you have any memories of it to begin with," Jones mutters, which causes Nolan to turn around and clock him clumsily in the face.

"Gentlemen!" Regina hollers, the volume of her voice causing both men to clutch their aching heads. "Stop it! Get out of here – take a walk or something."

"You can't give us orders," Nolan argues. "You're not our C.O. no matter how much you'd like to be."

"No, but I am, and I'm telling you to do exactly as Detective Mills suggested," Locksley says calmly from his office door. "Go! Talk it out; come back when you can behave like adults."

Nolan and Jones, still glaring daggers at each other, walk out the door, and Regina leans against her desk, inhaling sharply. She's struggling to review the thoughts racing through her head. Yes, if that conversation was what it sounded like, then Emma and Detective Jones had...why does she even care?

Yes, her partner had ignored her (very important) advice, not to mention violating her own stated principle of never getting involved with coworkers. And yes, she had violated it with the last person Regina probably would have chosen. It should be enough to make her feel mildly annoyed, not like someone has just punched her in the gut, tripped her, and spit on her face.

And yet, here she is.

* * *

"Mills, my office!" Locksley calls.

Regina rolls her eyes. Just when she thought this morning couldn't get any worse, she's now probably going to have to sit through some kind of lecture on how to properly speak to her coworkers. Wonderful. Stalking into the office, she slams the door shut behind her and glares expectantly at him.

"It's about your partner," he begins, and Regina immediately holds up her hand.

"Robin, with all due respect, I don't feel like talking about Detective Swan right now, so unless there's an emergency-"

"I happened to overhear the conversation between her and Jones in the squad room, and I thought-"

"That's not an emergency; nor is it a topic of conversation I wish to pursue at the present time," Regina spits out, her back ramrod straight and hands clenched at her sides to prevent them from shaking. "So, if that's all, then I have work to do. Good day, Lieutenant."

She turns to leave, but of course, the imbecile is still talking. "You know, when I saw them last night, I had the suspicion that something might-"

That causes Regina's head to whip around so fast that she feels a sharp pain in her neck, which is still a bit stiff from the night before. It takes all her self-control not to wince and reach up to rub the sore spot – she _won't_ show any more weakness in front of him. They may be friends again, but he's still her boss and there are boundaries. Breaking them last night was a one-time mistake.

"And you didn't do anything to stop it?" she demands. "You just let it happen?"

"Well, yes." He looks confused. "It's a bit unprofessional, but as we established last night, they're both grown adults. They can make their own decisions – their own mistakes. You're the one who said that."

Regina scowls. He's not wrong, but that doesn't change the fact that this entire situation makes her want to punch someone in the face, and he's the closest target.

"If they're grown adults, then why are we gossiping about them like a bunch of teenagers?" she hisses, trying to do some of the breathing exercises the department shrink taught her back when she was still having flashbacks in a futile attempt to control her anger. "I hope you didn't interrupt me just for this!"

He stares at her funny for a minute until something seems to dawn on him. "Mills, are you jealous?" he asks, eyes widening. She can almost detect a sparkle, some strange kind of mirth, behind his gaze, but she doesn't spare it much thought.

"Jealous? What the hell, Locksley? I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Of course you don't," he says with an exaggerated eye roll. "And I'm glad we're back to being friends, because now I can lovingly tell you that you're one of the least self-aware people I've ever met."

"You think I want to have meaningless sex with a man who's only capable of having feelings for rum?" Regina asks in shock. "I'd like to think someone who claims to be my friend would know me a little better than that.

"I think – you know what? No. Forget I said anything. You're probably right; it was meaningless sex after the shittiest of shitty days, that everyone involved will forget about within a couple of weeks."

"Good," Regina snaps, before she even realizes the words that are coming out of her mouth. Robin raises his eyebrows. "I mean, it's not great, but it's better than...well, if they decided to pursue a relationship, it could completely ruin the team dynamic," she fumbles, meeting his smirk with a menacing glare. "Anyway, their feelings toward each other are hardly our business."

"Of course, as long as they keep it off the clock, which...I was just thinking, maybe you could have a chat with Swan about it? I think she's probably going to be confused, and it's not as if you haven't-"

He abruptly stops, as though realizing that finishing his sentence could have disastrous results. "She looks up to you. She sees you as a mentor. You could help her get through it."

_She sees you as a mentor._

She's not sure why those words, which she's certain were meant as a compliment, hurt her so badly.

"I am not the department shrink," she says coolly. "Perhaps you could recommend that she set up an appointment with Dr. Hopper."

Robin sighs. "Think about it, Regina."

* * *

Regina thinks about it.

If Emma sees her as a mentor, why did she so blatantly ignore her advice?

Then again, doing something idiotic and self-destructive while intoxicated after a hard case is practically a rite of passage in this job, she thinks. And Emma's actions, while certainly humiliating, are hardly the worst she's seen.

Anyway, the harsh reality is that no matter how Regina feels, she needs her partner to be functional, so she buries the churning emotions inside of her that she can't even begin to process – not that she wants to – and goes in search of the younger detective to help her pick up the pieces.

She finds Emma in the bathroom, attempting to wipe the tears off her face in front of the mirror.

"I'm fine," she snaps, splashing water on the angry pink blotches staining her pale cheeks. She's obviously been crying for quite some time.

"No, you're not," Regina replies. Pissed as she is, she can't help but feel her heart go out to the woman. She knows all too well what it's like. "Nobody's fine."

"Yeah, well, everyone else is doing a much better job of hiding it," Emma sniffs.

"Years of experience. Also, that's just...not true."

"If you're here to tell me to get my shit together, don't worry. I'm working on it."

"I'm not judging you," Regina says quickly. "Truly, I'm not."

"I'm an idiot," Emma mumbles.

"Perhaps, if you think you're the first person to ever get drunk after a difficult day and have meaningless sex with a coworker."

"No, I meant – wait, what?" Emma abruptly turns from the mirror and regards Regina with wide, horrified eyes. "You think I had sex with _Jones_?"

"I...we assumed..." Regina's voice trails off, and she scratches her head in confusion. "You didn't?"

"No, I..." Emma looks down now, wringing her hands. "I had sex with his sister." When a minute goes by with no response, she slowly turns her head to stare at her partner with a gaze full of apprehension. "I told you, I don't get involved with coworkers. And, also, I...I don't get involved with _men_."

"Oh" is the only word that manages to make its way out of Regina's mouth. Her mind is in turmoil and she has no idea why. It's not as though Emma's preference for women comes as a huge shock. In fact, besides herself, the only female cop she knows well who hadn't eventually come out of the closet was...well, Marian. And even then – no, she can't think about that. It was a long time ago and they'd sworn to forget it ever happened. It's just that...

A nagging thought comes, unbidden and unwelcome, to the forefront of her consciousness: _if she's attracted to women, why isn't she attracted to me?_ She beats it back down, mentally berating her own folly in the process. Regina presses a hand against the doorframe to brace herself against the onslaught of self-loathing firing from all directions in her own voice, her mother's, even Daniel's. _Weak. Stupid._ She doesn't even want Emma Swan to be attracted to her. That would be – just...no. Besides, her partner is right. Any sort of involvement with coworkers is a mistake. Unequivocally, _always_, a mistake.

Emma is still watching her, waiting for a reaction. "If...if that's a problem for you," the blonde begins tentatively, "then, I'm sure Locksley can reassign-"

"No!" Regina exclaims. "I don't...I don't have a problem with your sexual preferences. And I certainly don't want a new partner."

"Okay, good." Emma smiles – it's small, but genuine. "And you don't have a problem with my idiotic mistakes from last night?"

Regina cocks her head ambivalently. "Everyone makes idiotic mistakes now and then."

"You don't. Locksley doesn't. Nolan and Jones do, but they somehow manage to put it behind them when they walk into work each morning. I just...I've never felt like more of a rookie. You guys have it all figured out, and I feel like I'm drowning or something."

It takes all of Regina's self-control not to laugh at the notion that she somehow has things all figured out when she still can't even sleep in her own bed at night, but she imagines Emma might find that disrespectful. Instead, she says cryptically, "Things aren't always as they seem."

"I saw Locksley in front of the news cameras," Emma says quietly. "Perfectly calm and composed. Like, obviously he was sad about what happened, but-"

"And why do you think he's the commanding officer of this unit?" Regina demands.

Emma gives the senior detective a blank, uncomprehending stare. "You mean besides the fact that BPD is sexist as hell?"

"That's part of it," Regina agrees. Three years later, it still hurts, and she's not going to pretend that she's over it. "But it's also because of what you saw. He has the ability to do that – to tell the people what they want to hear. What they _need_ to hear, so they can sleep at night."

"Yeah, but I bet you could, too."

She can't quite stop the smile that quirks the edges of her lips, but she quickly wipes it away to get back to business. "Thank you, but that's not the point. Do you think Locksley sleeps at night? Do you think any of us do? He goes home and hugs his son and then watches over him like a guard dog all night with his gun on the bedside table. Why do you think I run ten miles every day, or Jones drinks half his weight in rum, or Nolan spends ninety percent of the time acting like a self-righteous grandfather and the other ten percent behaving like a child with no understanding of human social behavior?"

"Because the job can make you crazy?" Emma guesses.

"Because there is no foolproof way to stay emotionally stable when every day of our lives, we see the absolute worst humanity has to offer. Brutal, senseless crimes that tear apart families and destroy people's hopes and dreams. And there is nothing, absolutely nothing, we can do about it. Sure, we can put the offenders behind bars, but it doesn't matter. We can't bring back the dead. We can't restore happy endings to any of those children's families. And even if we take one murderer off the streets, another one will come along tomorrow. We like to pretend that we're the heroes and good can triumph over evil, but we all know that we're not. And it doesn't."

Emma bites back a sob and glares at Regina with watery eyes laced with betrayal. "This is the worst pep talk I've ever had," she mutters. "I hope you didn't actually say all of that to make me feel better."

"No, I said it because I want you to realize that having a one-night stand with a coworker's sister and crying in the ladies' room at the station are both perfectly understandable reactions to an event that is heartbreakingly impossible to understand."

"So, if this is all senseless and nothing we do makes a difference," Emma says with a weary sigh, "then what exactly are we supposed to do?"

"What we always do – what we swore to do. Protect and serve the people of Boston to the best of our ability, and keep hoping that one day we'll live in a world where that will be enough."

"That doesn't really seem like a solution."

"It's not, but it's all we have. So, dry your face, then we'll tackle yesterday's mountain of paperwork and order some artery-clogging takeout and pretend we've got everything under control."

Emma responds by throwing her arms around Regina and burying her face her hair. Regina stiffens, waiting for the shiver to pass through her body again, but this time it doesn't. This time there's just warmth and comfort, and Regina exhales before pulling Emma against her, hands running repeatedly up and down the younger woman's back.

"Regina, if I haven't said it before, I'm really glad you're my partner," Emma says softly.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes**: Wow! Thanks for all the reviews and stuff on the last chapter. You all sure know how to make a girl feel special.

So, since a lot of you are begging for fluff, here is my gift to you: a couple of relatively light-hearted chapters before the real angst sets in. Bwa ha ha. I will destroy your happiness, etc.

* * *

To say that the memorial service for the shooting victims is sad seems like a drastic understatement, but it's the only word Emma think of to describe it in her head.

She tries devastating on for size, along with traumatic, heart-breaking, and gut-wrenching, but in the end, the word she keeps coming back to is 'sad.'

It's really, terribly, horribly sad.

The detectives stand together near the back of the crowd assembled in an empty lot just a block away from the crime scene. ADA Blanchard openly weeps. Emma sheds a few tears, as do Nolan and Locksley. Mills and Jones remain stone-faced, but the former's hands are shaking and the latter's eyes are rimmed with red.

Emma thinks she sees Officer Fa up near the front, with the community center director, and all the kids' families. There are five black balloons with the kids' names on them tied to empty chairs. Ayana, Jerome, Oscar, Michael, and Bria. It's eerily morbid but somehow strangely fitting.

The service is simple and reasonably brief. There are prayers and songs in various languages, chosen by the children's families. Then Ms. James gives a speech about the five kids who died and how wonderful they were and how they were taken too soon that has everyone bawling. A trembling Officer Fa steps up to give a speech about prevention of gun violence in the community which strikes Emma as slightly inappropriate because one of the people involved wasn't even from this neighborhood; he was a rich white boy who doesn't even have the excuse of being pressured into a gang. But hey, it's not her community and she's certain that Officer Fa, who's there every day, is a much better judge of what's needed.

It's cathartic in some ways and unsettlingly _not_ in others.

"I need a drink," Nolan mutters when it's all over. "But I also need to not drink again for the rest of my life."

"You should probably go home," Mary Margaret advises, "and think about more productive ways to deal with your feelings. I'm going back to the office to work on pre-trial stuff."

"I will replace your carpet," he promises.

"You ruined her carpet, mate?" Jones demands. "Idiot."

Locksley glares at both of them. "I'm off to put my son to bed. I sincerely hope that all of my detectives can stay out of trouble for one night."

"Shooting range?" Jones suggests after the lieutenant leaves.

Nolan shrugs. "Sure. Emma, you in?"

Emma considers for a moment and then shakes her head. "Strangely enough, I don't feel much like shooting a gun right now."

The two male detectives take off together, leaving only Emma and Regina behind. "So..." Emma mumbles. "Do you feel like getting dinner?"

"I can eat," Regina says with a slight shrug.

Emma pulls a face at her partner and admits, "I don't really feel like being alone right now."

How the hell they end up at the Lion Flower – _not_ drinking, because Emma never wants to see rum or possibly even beer again for the rest of their life – is unclear. She's fairly certain that she used to know more places to eat cheap, greasy burgers, places that don't bring back recollections of nights she'd rather forget. But here they are.

* * *

"Anyway, Regina, I just wanted to say thank you," Emma mumbles, in between French fries.

Regina narrows her eyes, confused. "I don't recall doing anything worth being thanked, but I suppose you're welcome." She bites into an onion ring and practically moans in bliss. She hates the Lion Flower – it's loud and dirty and full of far too many memories – but their onion rings are a rare indulgence. She can't even be put off by the fact that Emma had made some incomprehensible crack about ogres when she ordered them.

"You supported me through my first – and hopefully last – on-the-job emotional breakdown," Emma points out. "And you've been really cool about the whole gay partner thing."

"Did you expect that I would have a problem with it?"

The blonde shrugs. "I wasn't sure, you know? I've never really come out at work before. You and Jones have both been totally fine, but you never know who'll turn out to be homophobic."

"Well, I'd like to believe I don't suffer from any phobias," Regina says stiffly, pained at the thought of anyone treating her partner with anything less than the respect she deserves, and also, for some reason, at the idea that Emma had trusted Jones with this information first, "but if I did, homosexuals would certainly not be one of them."

Emma laughs loudly at that, throwing her head back in genuine mirth, and Regina feels her cheeks flush. Unsure of what she said wrong, she chews on her lower lip and looks down at fidgeting hands, but she breathes a sigh of relief when Emma playfully punches her in the shoulder and says, "That sounds like something that should get printed on a t-shirt."

"Perhaps I'll pursue a career in design when I finally retire from the force," she jokes. A small smile involuntarily creeps across her lips, but she quickly grows serious again and softly tells her partner, "I hope...I hope you haven't had to deal with too many weak-minded people in the past."

When the expression on Emma's face makes it clear that she has, Regina feels her stomach clench. She reaches tentatively across the table to pat her hand, but the younger woman shrugs and pulls away, seemingly unreceptive to comfort.

"It's not – I mean, it was a long time ago," Emma says uneasily. "Mostly, like, back in high school before I had even figured it all out. Just one psycho-religious foster family and a few bullies here and there. I mean, compared to what some people have to deal with, it was nothing. And then...well, I really haven't had many issues since I made it to adulthood."

"I...that's...I'm glad," Regina says. "That it got better for you." But her voice catches in her throat because, glad as she is, her heart still blazes with fury on behalf of teenage Emma, so confused and afraid, with no one there to support her. She wants to weep for her, to travel back in time and shower that young girl with unconditional love and tell her that she's absolutely perfect. And then another part of her wants to track down every single person who had ever harmed her partner and make them pay.

She has a feeling that Dr. Hopper would likely classify the latter of those thoughts as "unhealthy."

"...I really do think the world is changing, though," Emma is saying. "Yeah, it's slow, and there are still a lot of...problems, I guess. But, I don't know - I've seen so much improvement, even in the last decade since I first came out. That could just be because we live in Boston, though."

"Possibly," Regina agrees noncommittally, because she really knows nothing about the situation. There was a time when she did – a time when she had enough mental and emotional energy to be concerned with things like politics and social activism – but that was...well, it was over a decade ago. Before her every thought became consumed trying to forget one terrible night that would never be forgotten. In retrospect, perhaps community involvement might have helped, but she supposes it's too late for regrets now.

"I mean, probably the worst reaction I've gotten from anyone I've told was my son's father," Emma continues. "And that was because he was in love with me or something like that. It was also the same time I told him I was pregnant, which, in hindsight, was probably a bad plan. One bombshell per day, right?" she adds with a short laugh.

Regina stares at her hands. "I'm sorry," she murmurs.

"Hey, we got over it. He's moved on. We're friends-ish. I mean, it's all about Henry now, you know? We just...we didn't want him to grow up like we did. And if that means working together..."

"You mean, in the foster system?" Regina asks.

"Yeah."

"Was that...was that difficult for you?"

Emma shrugs. "Yeah, kind of. I mean, if you're not one of the kids who's lucky enough to get adopted, then you pretty much spend your life getting shuffled around, feeling unwanted. Even the good families...they're only temporary, you know? They're not _yours_."

Regina stares into her partner's eyes and thinks, for just an instant, she truly does see a window into her soul. It's a lonely soul, filled with pain and turmoil, so very like and unlike her own all at once.

But it's only an instant, and then Emma is blinking and turning away, walls back up. "But I survived," she says quickly. "And so did Neal. We both made something of ourselves, and we might not be perfect parents all the time, but at least our son has never felt unwanted for even a second."

"I'm sure you're good parents," Regina reassures her with a sad smile. "It sounds like you love your son very much."

Emma shoves another fry in her mouth and mutters, "Sorry I've been rambling."

"No need to apologize, dear."

"No, I feel guilty. I mean, first I forced you to come to the bar with me, then I just spent the last half hour boring you with rants about my life."

"First of all," Regina declares, "no one forces me to do anything against my will. I came here with you because I wanted to. Furthermore, had I found the conversation topic even the slightest bit boring, I would have said so."

"Really?" Emma looks surprised. "You just...you didn't seem to be saying much."

"I was listening."

"Oh. Well...um...thanks, then. Thank you for listening. I haven't really said most of that stuff to anyone before."

"You're welcome. And, Emma, I know that our job can be...emotionally taxing. If there's ever anything - work-related or otherwise - that's bothering you, I hope you know that I'm here to listen, support...whatever you need. If you'll let me."

The moment the words are out of her mouth, she can't believe she said them, but she doesn't want to take them back. The fact that, in spite of all her years of experience, she's not even capable of emotionally supporting _herself_ seems insignificant when she sees the expression on Emma's face, joyful and teary and vulnerable and strong all at once.

"Thanks, Regina," she says with a genuine smile. "And, for what it's worth, the same goes for you. I mean, partners always have each other's backs, right?"

"Right," Regina agrees. This time, it's Emma who reaches out her hand. As they lace their fingers together, elbows resting on the sticky tabletop, Regina could swear she feels warmth and light coursing through her entire body, slowly melting away the layers of icy armor surrounding her heart. And as her partner's bright eyes meet her own, the sounds and smells of the bar seem to fade away, surrounding both of them with a warm glow that both sends tingles down Regina's arms and makes her feel perfectly safe. She gazes deeply into Emma's eyes, trying to see into her soul once again for some indication this sensation is mutual.

Then she feels the fingers interlaced with hers slowly tighten, and sees Emma's chest rise and fall as she takes a shaky breath, and knows that she feels it too.

* * *

The next week-and-a-half is filled with boredom, a feeling for which Emma has never felt more grateful. Days of paperwork for both their cases - making sure it's absolutely perfect so nothing goes wrong at all the pre-trial hearings, interrupted by a few calls to check out unattended deaths that Whale ends up ruling natural or accidental. Mary Margaret comes by almost every day to go over witness statements, evidence. Apparently, the Brown family hired their son a top-notch defense lawyer. Tony Wilson, on the other hand, is making do with an inexperienced attorney from Legal Aid. Mary Margaret mutters something about inequality that Regina counters with the pronouncement that she'd like to put her gun to both of their heads and make the trial unnecessary. After that, the ADA is quiet and tense through most of their interactions.

Then again, Mary Margaret has a lot on her plate. She's stressed about this shooting case and she's stressed about the Glass trial and the press crawling up her office's ass on a daily basis, and apparently the elections for a new DA are coming up, so she's stressed about that, too. Emma thinks that maybe she should do ADA Blanchard a favor and ask Regina to lay off.

After their talk at the bar, Emma thinks she feels a shift in her relationship with her partner. It's subtle, little things that might have escaped her notice if it were anyone besides the legendary hardass Regina Mills doing them. It's quick pats on the shoulder accompanied by private glances to check if she's okay whenever Mary Margaret leaves or something about the shooting plays on the news. It's the Evil Queen glare of death and snappy comebacks whenever someone makes even a hint of a homophobic remark. It's genuine good mornings and how are yous and careful remembrance of answers from the day before.

Regina is obviously taking her role as mentor very seriously.

It's enough that Emma feels comfortable enough to say one evening, after Mary Margaret leaves (head down and briefcase clutched tightly to her chest after Regina had made some dig about how she was probably just going to throw the case because she thinks mass murderers deserve second chances), "Hey, that was kind of a low blow."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Regina says stiffly.

"What you said to Mary Margaret just now. It was kind of...I mean, I know you hate her, for whatever reason, and you're certainly entitled to your feelings. It's just...you know, she's got a lot on her plate right now. Maybe you could ease up a little. At least, like, during all this pre-trial stuff."

Regina shoots Emma a glare that looks more uncomfortable than angry. "I do not hate Miss Blanchard."

"Could have fooled me. I mean, you kind of hate everyone, but it seems to come out extra strong with her."

"I don't," Regina insists. "I merely..."

She sighs heavily and looks at Emma with such incredible heartbreak that the younger woman almost feels guilty although she's the one entirely guiltless and uninvolved party in whatever went wrong with that relationship.

"You're right," she finally says sadly. "Perhaps I have been unfairly taking out my anger on Mary Margaret. I don't...I don't _hate_ her. It's complicated." She sounds as though it's a struggle to convince herself of that.

"What did she do to you?" Emma asks curiously.

Regina sighs. "As I said, it's complicated." She checks her watch and sighs again. "I'll apologize to her tomorrow. Are you going to go home?"

Emma shrugs. They've been playing this game for a few days now. She finds herself craving more and more time with Regina: showing up five, even ten minutes early for their morning runs, making excuses to linger over stretching, passing up on trips to the bar with the guys in order to stay late at work, even when there's nothing much left to be done. She's not sure how to account for her behavior; in her head, she explains it as enjoyment of newfound friendship. The crazy part is that Regina seems to be doing the same thing.

But whatever this sudden connection between the two of them is, whatever bond they're developing, it's not enough that Emma actually expects her partner to make good on her vow of apologizing to Mary Margaret.

So she's quite surprised the next morning when ADA Blanchard walks into the squad room, arms full of files, and Regina is the one who immediately walks over to help with them, beating even Nolan to the task.

"Miss Blanchard," she says uneasily, "I'd like to take back the comment I made last night. It was uncalled for. I'm...I'm very sorry. It won't happen again."

Mary Margaret looks shocked, Regina's fellow detectives even moreso.

"Hey, nice job," Emma says later when they're alone. "That was...that was really big of you."

"Well, I didn't do it for your approval," Regina growls, storming out of the squad room. But she's back fifteen minutes later, acting like none of it ever happened.

* * *

On the Monday after the shooting, Emma gets a call from Neal just as she walks into the station.

"Hello?" she snaps, instantly on high alert. "Is everything alright? How's Henry?"

"Everything is fine," Neal says calmly. "I just called to check in on you, see how you're doing. You seemed really upset last week, and you haven't spoken to me since then, and I just thought-"

"Of course I was upset," Emma grumbles. "Five kids got killed."

"But you're okay now?"

"I'm better, yeah. I don't know if it's possible to be okay after seeing something like that. Why are you calling me at work?"

"Um, it's kind of an awkward situation," Neal begins slowly, "but one I think you'll actually like. You remember my old foster sister Wendy?"

"The one who's dating that crazy guy? Who looks like she's twelve or something? I'm familiar with her."

"Yeah, that's the one. It turns out she's breaking up with him."

"Finally," Emma groans. "I wonder who talked some sense into her. Was it you? If so, you're a god."

"It wasn't me. But, anyway, she needs to use my truck to move her stuff out of his place next weekend - possibly also my bodyguard duties, I'm not sure. So, I was thinking maybe while I'm helping her with whatever she needs, Henry could spend the weekend with you?" he suggests tentatively.

Emma feels her entire face light up. "What? Are you serious? You _are_ a god."

"I want that in writing," Neal jokes. "Yeah, I'll drive the truck up next Friday after he gets out of school, have him at your place by the time you're off work. Unless you're on call or something."

"Pretty sure I'm not. Hey, Mills!" Emma calls across the lobby to her partner who's just walked in the door. "We're not on call this weekend, right?"

"No, Locksley's angry at Jones and Nolan again."

"Shit, those two can't seem to catch a break," Emma chuckles. "I almost feel bad for them." Returning to her call, she informs Neal, "Yeah, I'm free next weekend. Tell Wendy she's a strong woman and I admire the crap out of her. I'll make her a cake or something."

Neal chuckles. "I'll tell her. Maybe skip the cake, though. Nothing says 'I admire you' quite like giving someone food poisoning."

"Well, now I'm offended," Emma sniffs. "Betty Crocker and I are a great team – we've never given anyone food poisoning together."

"I'll call on Wednesday or Thursday to iron out the details," Neal promises. "Have a good day, Emma."

"You, too!" she asks enthusiastically, hanging up the phone and whipping around to face a perplexed Mills standing weirdly close to her. "Good morning, partner," she says with a slight gasp. "You startled me a little bit there."

"You're awfully upbeat today," the older woman comments, choosing not to address the uncomfortable lack of distance between them.

"That was my son's father. He needs to come up to Boston to help his foster sister move her stuff out of an abusive ex's place and probably, like, provide emotional support. Which means Henry gets to stay with me!" she exclaims, practically dancing with happiness.

"Emma, that's wonderful," Regina says with a bright smile. There's the same wistful look in her eyes she always gets when Henry comes up. Maybe one day, Emma will find the courage to ask about it, but that day is not today, and it probably won't be tomorrow either.

"Yeah," she replies carefully. "We agreed once a month, so two weeks is, like, two times better."

"It's exactly two times better, actually."

Emma blushes. "Is this you trying to suggest that I say 'like' too much?"

"Possibly," Regina admits. "But you're free to use whatever words suit you. Let's get to work."

Emma shrugs and follows her partner to the elevator.

* * *

Emma's fitness is improving. It's not something she notices on a regular basis, but it becomes very apparent on one morning run – the day Henry is supposed to come - when Regina lets her set the pace for a change. She's shocked to see that the other woman actually seems tired at the end of it, when she typically looks like she could keep going for another ten miles.

"This was a fast morning," Regina comments breathlessly, checking her watch as she gradually slows to a walk. "We averaged under eight-minute miles."

Emma splashes some water on her face and grins. "I'm no running expert, but that's decent, right?"

"Well, we won't be mistaken for Paula Radcliffe any time soon, but it's not bad, especially given your lack of training."

"What do you mean, 'my lack of training?'" Emma demands. "I've been training for almost a month now! And with a pretty good coach, I might add."

"I don't know what you're hoping to gain through flattery, dear, but I suggest you give it up."

"I was hoping if I buttered you up enough, you'd let me choose where we eat lunch for once," Emma admits. "I'm getting sick of that deli where all the sandwiches have sprouts on them."

"I ordered pizza once!" Regina argues. "And athletes need to eat lean proteins and vegetables. If you're serious about training for that marathon-"

"Yeah, yeah," Emma interrupts. "One time! After I cried in the bathroom and you felt sorry for me, but for obvious reasons, I'd prefer not to repeat those circumstances."

Regina huffs and straightens her hair. "Maybe you'd better start buttering me up a bit more, then. You should know that I don't give in easily."

Emma stares at her partner in momentary confusion. _Was that flirting?_ she wonders. No, it couldn't be. Sometimes it's impossible to tell what's going on with Mills, though. She's not sure there's a strong enough word to describe the level of enigma the senior detective has perfected.

"Hey," she says suddenly, an idea popping into her head, "since we ran so fast today, can I treat you to coffee or something before work?"

Regina checks her watch again – as if the time would have changed significantly in the two minutes or so since she last looked at it – and shrugs.

"Why not?"

They finish stretching (Regina insists that it's the most important part of the workout and can't be cut short, much to Emma's annoyance) and make their way to the nearest Dunkin' Donuts.

"Want to play a game where we try to guess each other's favorite donuts?" Emma asks.

"We could, but that would be an awfully boring game, because I don't like donuts."

"What the hell? Of course you do; you're a cop."

"Perhaps," Regina concedes, "but not these. There's a small donut shop near my hometown that has delicious homemade apple cider donuts. They're actually made with homegrown apples from my family's orchard: much better than all this industrially-processed garbage."

"She doesn't mean that," Emma assures the employee sweeping the floor, who isn't listening anyway. "Your hometown, huh? Where is that?"

"Storybrooke, Maine. It's about a half hour north of Portland."

Emma nods and files away the information in her brain. "How did you end up in Boston?"

"College," Regina says shortly. "You're certainly curious this morning."

"Well, I just thought...now that you know so much about me, maybe I could know some things about you, too?" Emma suggests in her sweetest tone. "I know you're into the whole 'Woman of Mystery' act at work, but we _are_ partners."

"We are," Regina agrees. "Fine. What do you want to know."

There's a moment – just a moment, but it's there – when Emma swears she sees a flash of panic, of paralyzing fear, in her partner's eyes. _That's weird_, she thinks, but it's not unthinkable that Regina might have demons in her past that she doesn't want to discuss. Emma herself certainly knows what that's like. She starts with something simple. "Which college?" she asks casually. "Probably something extra prestigious, right? Harvard?"

"Wellesley, actually."

"Wellesley?" Emma exclaims – far too loudly for the size of the establishment, she realizes as soon as the word leaves her mouth.

"Large coffee, black," Regina says with an apologetic smile to the young woman behind the counter. "And whatever this ill-mannered idiot is having."

"I'll have the same, and a chocolate glazed – hey!" she protests indignantly when she sees Regina reach into her jacket pocket. "I said I was treating you. That means _I_ pay."

"Fine. Pay."

"I'm about to."

The cashier looks confusedly between the two detectives before finally smirking. "That'll be $4.50, whichever one of you is paying."

Emma gives her a five dollar bill and sticks her tongue out at Regina. The cashier rolls her eyes as she hands over their order and change.

"You are a child. I'm asking Locksley for a new partner today."

"Yeah, I'll believe that when I see it," Emma snorts, passing one of the coffees to Regina and taking a large bite of her donut. "Anyway, let's get back on topic - you went to Wellesley?"

"Yes. Is that so difficult for you to believe?"

"No, not at all," Emma says quickly, "now that I think about it. It's just...you were a Wellesley girl!" she bursts out.

"I prefer 'woman' these days, but yes, we've just established that."

"I know, it's just...Wellesley girls – women – Wellesley women are hot!" Emma finally sputters.

That brings a burst of laughter out of the brunette. "What? Do you even know any Wellesley women?"

"Of course I do. Just because I went to night school, doesn't mean I've never rubbed elbows with the upper crust. Before this homicide gig started taking up all of my time, I used to frequent a couple of Boston-area lesbian bars," Emma informs her partner haughtily. "Wellesley women love lesbian bars."

"I...I didn't..." Regina mumbles, obviously flustered. "I certainly didn't mean to imply-"

"Not to mention Hillary Clinton, the entire cast of _Mona Lisa Smile_..."

"Stop right there," Regina orders. "That movie is an incredibly unrealistic and offensive portrayal of my alma mater, and I will not discuss it any further. Besides, I'm virtually certain that you do not personally know Hillary Clinton - who, by the way, is old enough to be your mother, so it's slightly disturbing that you find her attractive."

"Age is just a number," Emma says with a shrug. "I mean, it's _Hillary Clinton_."

"Fine. By all means, continue this ridiculous rant," Regina sighs.

Emma holds the door open and follows Regina outside. "I hope this isn't, like, offensive to you. I don't mean to generalize, or objectify your fellow alumnae or anything."

"I'd like to think I'm not so easily offended."

"It's just...I find smart women very attractive," Emma continues, wondering why the hell her mouth won't stop talking already. "But if this is making you uncomfortable, I can shut up. Don't worry, I'm not trying to say I'm into you or anything. I mean – well, objectively speaking, you _are_ a very attractive woman, not to mention badass, which adds to the appeal, and the Wellesley degree brings you up to, like, an eleven out of ten, but-"

"Emma," Regina hisses through gritted teeth. "Just stop."

Emma's eyes widen, horrified, as she takes in the pained expression in her partner's eyes, the rigid set of her jaw. "Oh, god, Regina, I'm so sorry," she breathes.

"It's fine. I'm not...I'm not _uncomfortable_." She spits the word out like it's distasteful to her.

"I'm sorry," Emma says again. "I guess it's been a while since I've had anyone I could be open with, you know, and I just got a little too open."

But then again, she doesn't really know what she said that could possibly have caused such _sadness_ in Regina's eyes. Annoyance, yes. Her words may have come across as flirtatious, and she's learned the hard way that straight women don't always like it when she flirts with them, but...unless it was the part about _not_ being into her. But, no, that couldn't be it. Regina's not – she isn't...

Is she?

That's the only option that makes any sense, but it's just not possible.

"Don't worry about it, dear," Regina orders, her face once again calm and composed as she takes a sip of her coffee. Only the slightest wisp of a shadow behind her steady gaze belies the bright smile she forces across her lips as she says, "I'll see you at the station in an hour or so."

"Later," Emma mumbles, taking off down the sidewalk in the direction of her apartment. She shrugs off the strangeness of the last moment of her conversation with her partner. One thing is certain: that woman is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside of a...well, inside of a gorgeous face and smokin' hot body that Emma, if she's being honest with herself, would totally be into if it weren't so entirely off-limits as to not be worth her consideration.

She doesn't look behind her, so she doesn't see the way that Regina is staring at her retreating back with a mixture of longing and confusion. Instead, she finishes off her donut and blithely looks forward to her weekend with Henry.

* * *

It's early in the afternoon on an uneventful Friday, and Regina has just taken a bite of her turkey sandwich – she has to admit that she privately agrees with Emma about the sprouts, but she's learned not to take her health for granted – when the detectives get a call about a body floating in the harbor. Nolan looks like he's about to vomit.

"Hey, since you guys are on this weekend, maybe Mills and I can take the crime scene for you," Emma offers.

"That would be nice," Jones says gratefully, shooting a sideways glance at his partner. "I'd prefer not to ruin another pair of my shoes with Nolan's lunch, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I mean, if that's alright with you, Regina," Emma quickly adds. "I didn't mean to just-"

"Well, you did _just_," Regina says accusingly, though she's mostly just teasing, and Emma responds with a smirk. She quickly throws her blazer over one shoulder and grabs her car keys, following the blonde out the door. "You have some sort of fascination with floaters?" she asks as they walk into the sunlight.

"No, I just wanted to get out of that damn squad room," Emma admits. "I don't understand how some people can do desk jobs full time."

"Isn't that what you were doing? In your previous position?"

"Why do you think I requested a transfer so quickly?"

"Point taken," Regina says with a tight-lipped smile.

"Look, Regina, about this morning," Emma begins as soon as the car doors are shut, "I really didn't mean any – I wasn't trying to-"

"Of course. And I...I just took something you said the wrong way for a second," Regina says quickly. There is nothing else; there's no other option. "There's no need to worry."

Emma wrings her hands and awkwardly looks down. "Right, I know. It's just...I do."

"You do? You do what?"

"Worry. I do worry...about you," she says softly. "Sometimes."

And there it is again, that warmth spreading through her middle that's pleasant and exciting and so terribly confusing all at once. She can't decide if it's a blessing or a curse.

"I mean, I would hate to think anything I said hurt your feelings. I feel like we're becoming friends, you know? And I would hate to ruin that."

It's a curse.

"Friends?" Regina asks. Her voice comes out tight and strangled.

Friends. Of course they're friends. Friends go running together and talk and joke and watch each other's backs, she remembers, though it's been quite some time since she's truly had one. Friends are good – Dr. Hopper says she needs them. And now she's found one.

So why does it feel so woefully inadequate?

She can't do this. She can't have these feelings – whatever they are. They're thoroughly inappropriate and she's not equipped to deal with them.

"Friends," Emma confirms. "If you'll have me, that is."

For a second, Emma looks terrified, like she's expecting her offer to be rudely rejected, and the sight of such vulnerability on the younger woman's face is enough to pull Regina out of her own mess of intermingled feelings almost instantly. "Of course I will," she declares, all latent longing for anything else instantly vanishing.

Emma lights up, flashing Regina a huge smile. "Okay, then, friend, do you mind if I turn on the radio?"

* * *

Dr. Whale and two Harbor Patrol officers are conferring together out at the edge of a dock when Emma and Regina arrive. "Mills, Swan," the Medical Examiner says with a friendly nod.

"What have we got?" asks Regina.

"Female, thirties or possibly early forties, pulled in about half an hour ago," Whale explains, with a quick glance at Harbor Patrol to confirm the timing.

"How long had she been...floating?" asks Emma.

"Difficult to say – the water's cold and slows decomposition. Based on the discoloration of her skin and the state of her body tissues, I'd say it's been more than three weeks, but it's difficult to tell how much more."

He unzips the body bag and Emma feels bile rise in the back of her throat at the sight of the victim's face. "Yep, that body's been in the water a while," she agrees, taking in the greenish-brown skin and the places where fish have bitten parts of her cheeks and lips. She thinks she understands Nolan's reluctance to come to the crime scene.

"I assume she didn't happen to have an ID in her pocket when you pulled her up?" Regina asks sarcastically. Whale nods. "We'll have to wait for DNA testing on the remains, then," the senior detective muses. "I doubt we'll be able to get any fingerprints off of her.

"Seems unlikely. And she doesn't appear to have had a whole lot of dental care, so not much chance of ID-ing her through dental records."

"I know you haven't done the autopsy yet, but are we looking at a standard drowning?" Regina asks briskly.

"Funny you should ask. Take a closer look at her forehead."

Emma leans in as close as she's willing to – not very far – and thinks she sees a small hole there. Regina leans closer and says, "That's a gunshot wound."

"I'll have to confirm, but it looks that way. It's about the size of a .22 caliber bullet."

"So, she might not have drowned. She might have gotten her brains blown out," Emma mutters to herself. "Lovely."

"Of course, this had to come on a Friday afternoon," Whale grumbles. "I'll start processing the body right away and let you know if there's anything that might help ID her faster."

* * *

After several hours of scouring a year's worth of missing person reports from eastern Massachusetts, southern Maine, Rhode Island, and Connecticut, they've come up with nothing and Regina runs her fingers through her hair with an angry sigh. She's called Whale to ask him to put a rush on processing the DNA, but they will won't have an ID for twenty-four hours or so. And that's if she's even in any databases.

"Come on!" Nolan mutters. "Someone _has_ to have reported her missing."

"She could have come from somewhere further away," Jones suggests. "Larger ships from all the way up and down the eastern seaboard pass through Boston – she could be from Florida, Nova Scotia...we might have to expand our search."

Emma shrugs. "She could have just not had anyone in her life who cared enough to report her missing."

Nolan and Regina both swallow hard and look down, while Jones regards the facial reconstruction sketch the morgue sent up with an appraising eye. "I find it hard to believe a woman who looked like that wouldn't be missed."

"Dude, no," Emma says with a vehement shake of her head. "Just...no." Jones raises his hands in surrender.

"So, we'll expand the search to all eastern seaboard states, going back...two years?" Nolan grumbles, quickly typing something into his computer. "Maybe I'll extend the age range, too, just in case."

"I'll fax the sketch to the Canadian authorities," Emma says helpfully. "I've always wanted to talk to a Mountie." Regina smirks and rolls her eyes.

Just as Emma is about to leave the room, her phone starts ringing and she stares at it, wide-eyed. "Shit!" she exclaims before picking it up and saying with obviously forced calm, "Hey, Neal."

_Of course,_ Regina remembers, checking her watch. _It's Friday evening. Emma's son..._

"Yeah, Neal, I know. There's just something that came up at work. This woman – yeah I can still take Henry this weekend, I'm just not going to be home in the next fifteen minutes, that's all. Can you just-"

"You're free to go," Regina offers. "This technically isn't our case."

At the exact same time, Jones loudly suggests, "Have him bring the boy to the station!"

Naturally, it's Jones that Emma hears first. "Really?" she asks eagerly, quickly covering the receiver with her hand. "Is that allowed?"

"Sure," he says brightly, and Nolan nods along behind him. "Impromptu Take Your Son to Work Day. Locksley does it all the time."

"It's not like what we're doing right now is particularly confidential or traumatizing," Nolan adds with a shrug.

"Great. Hey, Neal, why don't you drop Henry off at the station? I can show him around, finish up, and then take him home from here."

Regina leans heavily against the back of her chair with a sigh. She'd been an idiot to think she could avoid this forever.

"Okay, awesome. See you in fifteen."

She hangs up and turns back to the other detectives with an excited smile. "Thanks, guys. This really means a lot to me."

"No problem," Nolan and Jones immediately say in unison.

Regina forces a smile and nods, trying desperately to ignore the fact that her heart is thumping with apprehension inside a chest that's tightening so much that it's difficult to breathe. This isn't some kind of monster or demon that's coming to visit them, she reminds herself. It's just Emma's son.

Emma's ten-year-old son whose name just happens to be Henry.

He arrives far too soon for her liking, bouncing into the squad room with his overstuffed backpack and an adorable, inquisitive face that looks a whole lot like Emma's.

Jones and Nolan take to him immediately, fighting over who gets to give him the grand tour while talking over each other to explain what it is they're currently attempting to do. Emma leans against the wall and chuckles.

"So, this is what we think she looked like," Nolan says, "and we're looking through Missing Persons reports to see if anyone matches her description while we wait for the DNA tests to come back."

"Why don't you check her fingerprints?" he asks curiously.

"Hard to check fingerprints when a body's been submerged for that long," Jones explains while Nolan turns green again. "If you know what I mean."

"Oh...right." Henry looks a little sick himself.

"Hey, kid, you brought a book, right?" Emma cuts in. "How about you sit and read for a few minutes while I finish up what I'm doing. Or, you can look on the internet for good restaurants," she adds with a wink. "My desk is right here."

"Okay," Henry says agreeably, plopping down on Emma's chair. Regina has never felt strongly one way or the other about the fact that her partner's desk is right across from hers, but she's internally cursing the arrangement as she looks up directly into his bright green eyes, so similar to his mother's. He smiles at her a little shyly and says "hi" like it's the simplest thing in the world.

"Hello," Regina murmurs, quickly pulling her hands off her desk and sitting on them so he won't see how they're trembling.

"You must be Detective Mills."

"I...yes, I am. H-how did you know that?" Regina stammers.

Henry shrugs. "Well, you're the only other woman in the room besides my mom. Also, there's a nametag on your desk. Anyway, it's nice to finally meet you. I've heard a lot about you."

"And I, you," she just barely manages to choke out, staring at the hand he's just extended across the desk for her to shake. She clenches her right fist under her leg and then relaxes it, silently begging her body to get back under control.

It's Emma's easy humor that saves her. "I haven't talked about her that much!" she exclaims.

Henry rolls his eyes at his mom. "More than you've talked about anyone else."

"Shhh..." Emma teases. "Don't let Nolan and Jones hear you say that."

"Say what now?" Jones demands.

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Let's get back to work, slacker." She laughs and shoves him back toward Nolan's desk. "Get to work on that research, kid," she calls back to Henry. "I'm starving!"

"So," Henry says once his mother is occupied, "I hear you're one of the best detectives in BPD."

Regina's cheeks flush. "I don't know about that," she says quietly.

"My mom says so, anyway."

The blush spreads down her neck, and she's pretty sure she's starting to sweat. "That's very kind of her."

"Yeah, she was really excited to get a chance to work with you. I think she likes you a lot."

Her entire body feels like it's on fire. "Aren't you supposed to be researching dinner options?" she demands.

Henry cocks his head to one side and raises his eyebrows at her. "I'm just gonna look at Google Maps for the nearest pizza place," he says with a shrug. "Mom and I always get pizza. Dad makes me eat vegetables."

"Vegetables are good for you," Regina scolds. "I've been trying to teach your mother the same thing."

Henry laughs. "Good luck with that. But if she listens to anyone, it'd probably be you."

Regina feels a bit light-headed – if she wasn't already sitting down, she might have keeled over by now. She grabs the bottle of water next to her computer and presses it to her forehead. She thinks perhaps she's coming down with something. Wonderful, just the way she wanted to spend her weekend off: lying on the couch, plagued by feverish nightmares with no means of distracting herself.

But no, she's not sick. The feeling fades as soon as she takes a deep breath and stares numbly at her computer screen for a few moments. Away from Emma, away from Henry. Her heart rate is still unnaturally elevated, but it's better. She's better.

"Hey, kid, you ready? Did you pick a place?"

"It says there's an Alberti's Pizzeria two blocks from here," Henry says proudly. "Good reviews. Want to check it out?"

"I think – hey, Regina, that's the pizza place we ordered from last week, isn't it?" Emma asks. "That was awesome pizza."

"Yes, it was," Regina replies in a voice she hopes is carefree and composed. "It was quite good," she tells Henry. "I think you'll like it."

"Cool. Do you want to come with us?"

"I...I, uh..." Regina stutters, glancing between mother and son in confusion. She digs her fingernails into the bottom of the chair in a futile attempt to ground herself. "I couldn't...I wouldn't want to-"

"It'll be fun," Henry says, seemingly unaware of the turmoil she's going through. "You can tell me embarrassing stories about my mom. I'm sure you have some by now."

"You're welcome to come with us, Regina." Emma's looking at her worriedly, searching her face for a reason behind whatever emotion she currently sees on it. "It's been a long week; you should probably start getting home soon, anyway."

She can't do this – she can't sit here under the scrutiny of not one but two sets of wide green eyes, pretending that everything's fine and normal when inside there's an army of a thousand different emotions trying to tear her into tiny little pieces.

_No. No, thank you_, says her mind.

"Okay," says her traitorous mouth.

* * *

Regina sits across from Emma and Henry, half-listening to their conversation in awkward silence, half-staring at her hands ripping her pizza to shreds on her plate, trying desperately to contain the anxiety that's been bubbling up inside of her ever since she first heard Emma say Henry's name on the phone. She shouldn't have come. She's...this – this is so far outside her comfort zone that she has absolutely no idea what to do with herself.

It shouldn't be, though, or that's what she tells herself. After all, she sees Emma practically every day. And it's not as if she's afraid of kids. In fact, she's quite good with them. She's nearly always the one tasked with interviewing child witnesses when the need arises, though she supposes that's quite different from interacting with them socially.

Still, she spends quite a bit of time with Roland. Then again, they're usually at the station or the Locksleys' apartment, never in public and rarely without Robin there to jump in if it starts to starts to become more than she can handle.

Normally, she hates him for it. Hates that he makes her feel weak, like she needs someone to take care of her. She always demands to know what he thinks would happen if he'd just let her handle it on her own.

Panic attacks, apparently, like the one she's on the verge of right now.

And now, the source of all her current anxiety is talking to her.

"So, Det – Regina," he begins. She'd told him in the car to call her Regina. "My mom says you two go running together."

"Yes, we do," she confirms, placing one hand on her stomach and pressing against it with her breath the way Dr. Hopper had taught her. _In. Out_. Deep, slow breaths, from the diaphragm.

"She says she can run ten miles without stopping and that she's training for a marathon. Is that true?"

His tone is accusing, like he's hoping to catch his mother in a lie, and Regina almost chuckles. _In. Out. In. Out._ "Actually, yes," she says, with a glance at Emma, who looks at the uneaten slice of pizza on Regina's plate and her hand resting on her stomach and mouths, _You sick?_ She shakes her head and forces a smile. "She's becoming reasonably fast, too."

"No way!" Henry exclaims. "How much is she paying you to lie for her?"

_In. Out. In. Out._ Slowly but surely, her heart rate is slowing and her lungs are beginning to expand more easily. This is better. She's okay. She can do this. "Well, there was that coffee she bought me this morning," she teases.

Emma gives an exaggerated gasp. "Hey! This is so not fair! My own kid and my partner ganging up on me? Thanks a lot, guys."

Henry laughs so beautifully that Regina feels her own face alight. _In. Out._ She takes the risk of removing her hand from her stomach and reaching it across the table to pat Emma's in a mock soothing gesture. "But my integrity can't be bought so easily," she informs the boy. "Your mother is actually a decent runner. I expect she'll be able to finish the marathon strongly if she keeps up her training."

"So there," Emma says smugly, turning her hand over to curl her fingers around Regina's. _You sure you're okay?_ she mouths. The senior detective swallows hard and nods; Emma flashes her a smile and gives her hand a soft squeeze, causing Regina to blink in confusion. Emma doesn't know – she can't know. But maybe she doesn't have to.

"Since I'm a 'decent runner,'" the blonde continues, "maybe you shouldn't be bringing home notes from your gym teacher about your poor attitude. Yeah, you better believe your dad told me about that."

"Can I help it if I'm not interested in cup-stacking races?" Henry demands.

"No, but you can refrain from making sassy comments about it within earshot of your teacher. Is that too much to ask?"

"What are cup-stacking races?" Regina asks bewilderedly.

"Exactly what they sound like," Emma informs her. "All the rage for building kids' dexterity and fine motor skills."

"And their boredom," grumbles Henry, causing his mother to smirk and look at him with a loving mix of pride and consternation.

"That sounds like a complete waste of time," Regina comments. Her elementary school P.E. class had mostly consisted of running obstacle courses through the forest, and she'd loved it.

Henry looks her up and down in approval, eyes lingering for a moment on the hand that's still joined with Emma's. "I like you," he declares. "Mom, can we keep her?"

"Thanks a lot, Regina. He'll never listen to me, now that the legendary Detective Mills agrees with him. Listen up, kid. You're allowed to think whatever you want about your school curriculum, but you've gotta learn to keep it to yourself."

"That's true," Regina agrees. "A lot of times, people in power don't like being told they're wrong."

Henry scowls at both of them. "I still don't understand why I can't learn cool stuff at school. Like riding a horse."

"Probably because they're teaching you to be an employable citizen of the twenty-first century, not a medieval knight."

"But my employment is going to be writing," he protests. "And I need to know what riding a horse feels like, for my book."

"I could teach you" comes out of Regina's mouth before she even realizes what's happening. Mother and son stare at her with identical expressions of shock.

Henry exclaims, awestruck, "You can ride horses?" at the same time Emma asks, "When and where are you going to get a horse for him to ride?"

"Um..." Regina fumbles for a moment. Henry's question is easier. "Yes, I can. I grew up with horses, and I competed in equestrian throughout high school and college. As for when and where, well..."

Maybe she should have thought this through before opening her mouth.

"My parents have horses. It's...it's a bit far, to their place," she backtracks. "About a two and a half hour drive, but...if you wanted to, I suppose..."

"Cool," says Henry. He turns big, pleading eyes toward Emma. "Mom, can we? Please?"

"This weekend?" Emma questions. "That's kind of...we wouldn't want to impose on your family or anything..."

"It wouldn't be an imposition," Regina says quickly. "My mother has been pressuring me to visit for quite some time, and this seems like a way to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak." Henry can learn to ride a horse; she can claim to be doing her duty like a good daughter without actually spending much time in her mother's presence. Save for the number of stressors she'd be introducing all at once – Dr. Hopper would likely not approve – it's a genius plan.

Emma purses her lips. "I don't know."

"It's your call, of course. I understand it's far; you may have other plans."

She's not sure whether the pleading look she shoots Emma is for a yes or no.

"We don't," says Henry. "She's just afraid of horses. Come on, Mom!"

"Oh," Regina murmurs. Of all the things to be afraid of... "Well, there's no need to worry. He'd only be allowed on the calmest, oldest, most even-tempered horse in the stable, and I'd be by his side every second. Of course, he'd also be wearing a helmet."

Why the hell is she doing this? Is this really what she wants? A full day of Henry and Emma and her mother, in Storybrooke of all places, where there's no way to escape?

"So, this is at your house?" Emma clarifies. "Your horses? You know all of them?"

Regina worries her lower lip with her teeth and nods.

Emma thinks for a moment. "Wait, so you have horses _and_ an apple orchard?" she suddenly demands. "This must be quite the estate."

"It is rather large," Regina says uneasily.

"Hey, awesome! An orchard! Can we pick apples there, too?"

He looks just like an eager puppy for a moment, drawing laughter from both women. "Well, dear, they're not actually in season right now," Regina points out.

Henry's face falls. "Oh, right," he mumbles. "I knew that."

"Maybe, if you mind your manners and cut down on the bull-in-a-china-shop act, you can score an invitation back in the fall," Emma says with a smirk.

_"I'm_ a bull in a china shop? You're the one who – wait does that mean we can go?"

Emma's eyes search Regina's, and when the brunette gives a reassuring nod, she mirrors the action. Henry pumps his fist in the air and smiles so brightly it renders all the lights in the restaurant unnecessary.

"Are you serious?" he asks Regina incredulously.

She nods again, and he launches out of his seat and throws his arms around her. "You're my favorite person in the world," he states.

"Hey, now!" Emma says with a laugh. "Someone's getting offended over here." Henry snorts and grabs the hand that isn't attached to Regina's, pulling his mom in to join the embrace. Regina is afraid she feels her chest tightening again, but she forces herself to breathe through it. _In. Out._ This isn't scary. This is...wonderful.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes**: Mega-gratitude, as always, for the feedback. Reading all of your interesting comments is probably my favorite part of writing this story. :)

I hope you enjoy this super lengthy update: ~11k words of _mostly_ fluff, but some angst crept in because I just can't help myself. Brief mentions of violence, but nothing too graphic.

* * *

Regina wakes up at four, drenched in cold sweat and heart pounding so intensely that she's worried it will wake her neighbors. It's the same nightmare as always, except instead of Leopold White holding a knife over her, it's her mother's head superimposed on his body, and instead of Daniel bleeding to death in her arms, it's Emma and Henry. _It's not real, _she tells herself. _That never happened._ But it doesn't make the vision any easier to bear.

She hugs a couch cushion against her chest and tries to blink back the hot tears beginning to leak out of her eyes. Taking deep breaths, or as deep as she can possibly manage under the circumstances, she counts backward from one hundred once and then twice. She's being ridiculous – it was just a dream. Her mother is not going to murder Emma and Henry. Her mother would never kill anyone, unless critical remarks suddenly become lethal (in which case, she'll massacre the entire world). Even so, this trip is a terrible idea. She's not sure what the hell was going through her head last night. Something about her partner or her partner's son or the combination of the two of them had taken away her ability to say no or to think reasonable thoughts. There's part of her, and it's so very convincing, that says to call Emma. Call her right now and tell her they can't do it. The visit to Storybrooke is off.

But then she sees the expression of joy and gratitude on Henry's face and feels his arms encircling her and thinks that whatever happens today will all be worth it, just for that moment. That moment that she wishes she could have over and over for the rest of her life.

Returning to sleep is an impossible fantasy, even though she knows she needs it. Confronting Cora Mills with anything less than her full wits is a recipe for disaster. So, with trembling fingers, she laces up her running shoes and hopes that several hours of pounding the pavement will somehow be enough to keep her functional.

* * *

It's 4:45 when Emma jerks awake and leaps out of bed, throwing on her running clothes in a matter of seconds and stuffing a protein bar into her mouth before a soft snore coming from Henry's room reminds her that she's not supposed to meet Regina at the river this morning. Instead, Regina is coming here at seven to take them to some crazy little town in Maine so one of Henry's lifelong dreams can come true.

She still can't quite believe it – that's got to be the nicest thing anyone has ever done for the kid. She's introduced Henry to her friends and coworkers before, and they usually get on reasonably well with him, but this...this is just extraordinary. When Henry wakes up – as he inevitably will in a few minutes – they'll have to talk about something nice to do to thank Regina.

For now, maybe she'll just watch him sleep for a while, her beautiful boy whose face she doesn't get to see nearly enough.

"Hey, Mom, what are you doing up?"

Or not.

"I could ask you the same," she notes, offering him her second protein bar, which he turns up his nose at. "Fine, I'll make scrambled eggs. You sleep well?" She already knows the answer – he's only been up for a minute and he's already buzzing with energy; there's no way he managed to keep his eyes shut for long with all that excitement.

"I slept okay," he lies as she starts greasing a frying pan. He perches on one of the stools on the kitchen counter, practically bouncing up and down. "Last night wasn't just a dream, was it?"

"If you're talking about the part where you got invited to go horseback-riding in Storybrooke, Maine, then no. Definitely not a dream – I was there."

He looks relieved for a moment before starting to bounce again. "Regina's probably a really good rider, right?"

Emma shrugs and starts cracking eggs. "I really have no idea – didn't even know she rode horses until yesterday, but I assume she's pretty decent if she competed."

"Cool. Do you think she'll teach me how to gallop? Or do jumps?"

"Umm..." Emma chuckles. "Listen, kid, I don't know much about learning to ride horses – you know that – but I don't think going full-tilt-boogie is really a first day thing."

Henry puffs out his chest and glares at her. "I'm a fast learner."

"Yes, you are," she agrees. "When it suits you."

"Whatever." He sticks out his tongue at her and pretends to sulk for a minute before immediately re-energizing and hopping around the kitchen. "Regina's pretty awesome, huh?"

"Stop jumping, kid, you're gonna wake the downstairs neighbors and they'll hate me even more than they already do." When he stops – and starts tapping his fingers on the counter instead – she replies, "Yeah, she is. We should probably try to come up with some way to repay her."

"Okay, what does she like?"

Emma racks her brain while pouring eggs onto the pan, still on early morning autopilot. "She likes coffee – black coffee – and onion rings. Not together, though, probably. And, um...running. And apparently, horses."

"Maybe keep working on that," Henry suggests. "Anything else you want to tell me? About Regina?"

"She doesn't like letting other people drive her car?"

Henry rolls his eyes. "That's not what I meant."

"She only likes the apple cider donuts they sell at this one place in Storybrooke – hey, maybe we can stop there and try them!"

"Mom, stop thinking about food!" Henry exclaims.

"But it's breakfast time!" She scoops the eggs onto a plate and passes it to him, swiping a bite before he can inhale the whole thing. "Eat up, you'll need your strength for managing the savage beasts."

"I don't think I'll be riding a _savage_ horse," he says reasonably, with his mouth full of eggs. "She's pretty."

"She's too old for you, kid," Emma says with a laugh.

Henry sighs heavily and shoves another forkful into his mouth. "Not like that."

"I know, just teasing. You want cocoa?"

"Yes, please."

"Manners. I like it," Emma comments, pulling the mix out of the cabinet. She sets a pot of water on the stove to boil and asks, "So, how are you doing on those thank-you gift ideas?"

"I'm thinking! You haven't really given me that much to go on."

Emma smiles apologetically at her son and throws up her hands. "I know; I'm sorry. Honestly, the woman's kind of a mystery to me. Like, I know her, but I feel like I don't know anything about her. It's weird," she admits.

"Maybe you'll learn something about her today," he suggests. _Always so wise for a boy of his age_, Emma thinks. He definitely didn't get that from her. "Do you think my jeans will be okay for riding? I only have those and...these pajamas."

"I'm sure they'll be fine. Cowboys wear jeans."

"Why am I even asking you?" Henry sighs. "Can I have your phone?"

"What? Why?"

"So I can call Regina and ask her, since she'll actually know what she's talking about."

"No, you can't call Regina at five in the morning! I'm sure she would have told you if you needed to wear something special."

Henry glares at her and Emma can't help but smirk as she pours two mugs of cocoa. "I'll send her a text," she promises. "You want to be on whipped cream duty this morning?"

* * *

Emma Swan is very serious about her road-trip mixes. That was the first thing Regina had learned this morning when she'd arrived at her partner's apartment and found the younger woman and her son carrying a mess of complicated wires designed to hook up an iPod to the car's radio. Regina tries to act appreciative, but truthfully, she barely hears any of it over the roaring in her ears.

She rolls down the windows and tries to breathe as she speeds north on I-95, periodically sneaking glances at her two passengers in the rearview mirror. Both Emma and Henry seem happy, relaxed. How nice for them. Regina's knuckles are white, and she feels like she might need to pull over and hyperventilate. For about the hundredth time, she thinks about stopping, but they're halfway to Storybrooke.

There's no turning back now.

"So is there anything we should know about your parents?" Emma asks casually. "I mean, like, certain expectations of manners, anything like that?"

"Not really, just...normal manners," she mutters. "Ignore my mother if she says anything off-putting. Also, my father's name is Henry, so he'll probably make a big deal out of yours," she adds, turning to the boy in the backseat.

"Cool!" he exclaims. "Should I call him Henry? Or Mr. Mills?"

"Mr. Martinez, actually," Regina corrects. "My mother kept her maiden name."

"And you got hers?" Emma raises one eyebrow. "Kind of progressive for...what, 1970?"

Regina shakes her head. "In practice, yes, but the reasoning behind it is far from it. She thought I wouldn't be successful in the corporate or political world if I had a Hispanic last name. Of course, to her dismay, I chose to enter neither of those professions, so it didn't matter."

"Wow. One small step for feminism, one giant leap backward for racism," Emma jokes.

"Something like that."

"And your dad was okay with that?" Henry pipes up from the backseat.

"He doesn't care," Regina explains. "At least, he's never seemed to. He's fairly laid back about most things."

"So, the exact opposite of you?"

Irritated, Regina turns to shoot her partner a sharp glare, but her anger fades when she sees the giant grin on Emma's face. "I'm sorry," the blonde says, apologetically rubbing her shoulder. "You just seem really stressed about seeing your parents."

"Doesn't everyone feel that way about their parents?" Regina questions, staring hard at the road and trying to ignore the tingling sensation Emma's touch brings to her skin.

Emma shrugs. "I wouldn't know, but probably."

"Oh," Regina says softly. "Right. I..I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

"It's okay," Emma interrupts, but Regina can't help but think that it's _not_ okay. She's not exactly known for being sensitive – probably how her coworkers had come to nickname her 'The Evil Queen' – but the idea that she had caused Emma a painful moment shoots a sharp pang through her heart. Still, perhaps this is the wrong time to attempt to process it, with Emma's son in the car and Regina hardly in an emotional state fit to offer support.

"She's an orphan, like Harry Potter," Henry ever so helpfully informs her. "Well, not really, since her parents didn't get killed by an evil dark wizard. That we know of."

"Yeah, and I also never had to live in a cupboard, for which I am extremely grateful. Other than that, Harry Potter and I are basically the same person."

"And to think, I never knew I was partnered with a celebrity," Regina deadpans.

Emma smirks. "Life is full of surprises," she says teasingly. Her hand is still on Regina's shoulder, rubbing back and forth in a gentle motion that Emma probably doesn't even realize she's doing but that renders Regina barely able to focus on anything else. She takes a deep breath and keeps her eyes on the road. The feeling is not altogether unpleasant, she decides.

"Is that what you're reading, Henry?" she asks, in a voice that's much higher and squeakier than usual. "Harry Potter?"

"Nah, I've already read all of them a million times. Anyway, this is a notebook," he explains, holding it up so she can see. "My friend Grace and I are writing a book together. I'm editing her part this weekend."

"And what are our favorite tragically displaced fairytale characters up to these days?" Emma says with a chuckle. When she twists around to look at her son, her hand drops, and Regina sighs from a confusing mix of relief and disappointment.

"Top secret."

"Fine," Emma huffs. Suddenly, her face lights up with an idea. "Hey, you know, Storybrooke would be a great name for the town!"

Henry nods in approval. "That's actually a pretty good idea," he says. "I'll ask Grace. We don't have a name yet."

Regina chews at her lower lip and looks at the road signs. Forty-five more minutes, maybe. The dread in the pit of her stomach is growing and she can feel a wave of nausea coming on even though she hadn't eaten anything for breakfast.

"Henry's writing a book," Emma is saying, "about a bunch of fairytale characters who get cursed to live in the real world with no memory of their former lives."

"All their happy endings get ripped away," Henry explains, "and they have to break the curse so they can get them back, but none of them actually know, so it's tricky."

"That sounds...interesting."

"And I was thinking Storybrooke would be a great name for the cursed town, because, you know, _Story_-brooke. Get it?" The blonde laughs to herself, and Regina tries to smile, but it comes out as a grimace.

"Yeah, Mom, we get it," Henry groans.

"Storybrooke is definitely a curse," Regina says under her breath. They pass a sign for a rest stop, and she abruptly pulls off the highway and mumbles something, she's not sure what, before putting the car into park and sprinting into the restroom without even turning it off. Emma can take care of it. She dry heaves over the toilet for a few minutes and then leans helplessly against the wall, shaking and trying to keep the tears building up behind her eyes from falling.

Deep breaths – in, out. It's not working. She digs her fingernails into her arm and starts counting by sevens. She's at 161 when she hears a knock at the door.

"Hey, Regina." It's Emma's voice. Damn it. "You okay?"

"Fine," she manages to grit out.

"You sure?"

_No._

"Yes. I'm...I'll be out in a minute." She turns on the sink to make it sound like she's washing her hands and splashes a little of the cool water on her face.

She can do this. She wills her lower lip to stop quivering and takes one final big, shuddering breath before opening the door and saying brightly, "Well, shall we?"

Emma gives her a suspicious once-over. "You sure you're not getting sick?" she asks.

She's being given an out – she takes it. "Must have been something I ate," she lies, not particularly smoothly.

"Yeah, right. When's the last time you ate?"

Regina glares up at her partner – curse her and her instincts – and reluctantly admits, "It may be a case of overbearing mother-itis." Of course, that's not all of it, but she certainly can't share the rest, not with Emma. It's not fair to burden her with that knowledge.

"Regina," Emma sighs. "Look, this is a really nice thing you're doing for Henry, and I don't want to come off as ungrateful or anything, but if she makes you this stressed out, maybe you shouldn't have offered."

"I can handle my mother," Regina says robotically. "I've been handling her for forty-three years."

"That doesn't always make it easier."

_I know__!_ Regina wants to shout. This sympathy is not helping – it's only serving to bring her closer to tears. She doesn't need to be coddled, she needs-

"Do you need a hug?" Emma offers.

_What is it with the Swan family and hugging her?_ Regina wonders, torn between curiosity and annoyance. "No," she says in a strained whisper. "I need...I need to get in the car and keep driving."

Emma nods slowly. "Okay," she agrees. "Want me to buy you a ginger ale or something? To help settle your stomach?"

"No, thank you. I'll be fine." Regina straightens her shoulders and begins walking back towards the car, where Henry is awaiting them with a curious expression.

She manages to flash him a small smile as she gets back into the car. "Sorry for the brief interruption. Next stop, Storybrooke."

* * *

They take a break for donuts and coffee at a rundown-looking diner on Main Street that Emma has to admit is several cuts above anything she's had before. The donuts are, anyway. The coffee leaves something to be desired, but she drinks it anyway. Caffeine is caffeine. Henry likes the cocoa, and they even put cinnamon on it for him.

She stops to inhale the sea breeze – Storybrooke is apparently a coastal town – while Regina stops to speak to about the tenth person who's greeted her so far.

"You're kind of famous here, aren't you?" she observes.

Regina lets out a small, nervous laugh. "It's a small town, and my father is the mayor."

"Damn," Emma whistles. "Your parents are quite the power couple."

"I suppose," Regina says uneasily. "Although, there's not a lot of power in small town politics."

The drive from the center of town to the Mills-Martinez estate is fairly short, and Emma spends most of it looking out the window at the sleepy, picturesque little town surrounding them. It looks like nothing has changed since the early eighties. She tries to picture her incredibly regal and uptight partner running around here as a little girl and finds that she can't.

They pull up in front of a huge house – maybe not the biggest Emma's ever seen, but pretty damn close – and Regina shakily exhales as she turns off the car.

"Here we are," she says tersely. "I apologize in advance for whatever is about to happen."

Emma shoots Henry a stern look as a reminder to be on his best behavior, and thankfully, the kid seems to get it. He quickly straightens his shoulders and wipes the crumbs off his pants. They're met at the door by an older woman who must be _the_ Cora Mills, judging by her appearance and the way Regina's shoulders immediately tense upon seeing her.

"Regina, darling, I wasn't expecting you'd actually make it." The woman's voice is happy and friendly, but not particularly warm.

"Hello, Mother," Regina says quietly. Her mother pulls her in close and they exchange stiff kisses on both cheeks, European style. "This is my colleague, Detective Emma Swan, and her son, Henry.

"How lovely to meet you both," Cora says, politely extending her hand. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" she questions her daughter.

"Henry would like to learn how to ride, so I offered to teach him."

Cora purses her lips. "How nice," she says with a fake smile. "I'll let you get out to the stables, then, before the day gets too hot. Will you and your friends be staying for dinner?"

Regina quickly shakes her head. "Probably not. It's a long drive back; they have plans tomorrow." They don't, but Emma just shrugs and nods.

"I see. Perhaps a late lunch, then?"

"That sounds lovely. Thank you, Mother." Regina casts a furtive glance toward the staircase. "Is Daddy home?"

"He's at a council meeting, but he should be home within thirty minutes. I'll send him out to say hello."

Regina nods and motions for Emma and Henry to follow her out into the back yard. Once Cora is out of sight and earshot, Emma watches, concerned, as her partner lets out a huge sigh of relief, rigid posture deflating as she practically sags against a tree. While there hadn't been anything particularly wrong with that encounter, seven years on the force (and eighteen in the foster system) have exposed her to her fair share of people who react to their parents in such a way, even well into adulthood, and there's part of her that wants to say something, but Henry is here and Regina has since straightened and resumed walking resolutely forward to a building about a hundred yards away, armor securely in place.

"Council meetings on Saturday morning?" Emma asks, hurrying to catch up.

Regina smirks in a way that never quite reaches her eyes. "More like brunch with a couple of friends, using his expense account. I'm sure town issues will be discussed for about five minutes."

"Geez, maybe I'll get into small town politics after I retire from this whole policing thing. Seems like a pretty nice life."

"It certainly affords a lot more relaxation," Regina agrees. "Here we are."

She pulls open the door of a large, wooden stable and holds it while Emma and Henry walk in: the latter eagerly, the former much less so. Emma hangs behind Regina, who deeply breathes in the musty smell of hay and manure like it's her favorite in the whole world. Emma is on edge, waiting for one of them to charge. A black horse in the first stall whinnies as they approach, and she jumps about a foot in the air.

"You really are afraid of horses, aren't you?" her partner marvels. "I thought Henry was exaggerating."

"He does tend to do that," Emma says through gritted teeth, "but not this time."

Regina looks shocked. "But horses are so-"

"Big!"

"It's pretty much her only fear," Henry adds informatively. He's already gone right up to that giant monstrosity of a beast and is happily petting it on the nose. "She's not afraid of any normal things – she'll probably go sky-diving before she rides a horse."

Emma mutters, "It's not my _only_ fear," and Regina shoots her a sympathetic glance before reaching for her hand. She clasps it between both of hers and draws Emma in close.

"Are you okay to be in here?" Regina asks quietly. "You can wait outside if you want."

"Nah, I think it would probably be worse if Henry was inside and I couldn't see him," Emma whispers. "Besides," she tries to joke, "I'm feeling much better with you holding my hand like that."

Apparently her tone hadn't come across as humorously as she would have liked, because Regina regards her with big, serious eyes and says, "Okay," while squeezing her hand tighter. "Henry, our first task is to pick a horse for you to ride. We have five, and any of them would be a perfectly fine choice."

Almost immediately, Henry asks, "Can I ride this one? I think he likes me."

"Can't you shop around for a smaller one?" Emma protests feebly.

A small tremor passes through Regina's body and she swallows hard before saying, "Yes, of course. This is Bear. Don't worry," she tells Emma soothingly. "He's actually quite small for a horse, and he's extremely calm and gentle. Perfect for...for a first-time rider."

"Okay," Emma mumbles, casting her partner a confused look which the older woman carefully ignores.

"Now, some basic horse safety: when you feed him treats, keep your palm flat and your fingers close together, otherwise he'll confuse them for carrots and nip them. Also, we're going to learn how to brush and saddle him. When I let you into the stall, make sure you stand in front of him or on the side. Don't stand directly behind him."

"Why not?" Henry asks nervously.

"Horses kick back; it's their instinct. He won't mean to hurt _you_, obviously, but if he can't see you, he doesn't know if you're a friend or predator. But as long as he can see you, you'll be perfectly safe," she adds with a pointed glance at Emma.

"Okay," he agrees. He's got his game face on, but he's practically vibrating with the excitement he's trying to bury beneath the surface. _Regina had better let him at the horse before he explodes,_ Emma thinks.

"I'm going to open the stall now," Regina says. "Just follow my lead. She drops Emma's hand so she can unbolt the door, and the blonde looks down sadly for a second at her newly cold fingers, missing the contact already.

Regina greets the horse like an old friend, petting his neck and leaning against him in a way that almost looks like a hug. For his part, Bear makes a friendly whuffling noise and nuzzles her shoulder. Emma would say it was adorable if the damn thing weren't quite so big.

"Was this the horse you competed on when you were younger?" Henry asks curiously.

"Oh, no," Regina says quickly. "Rocinante died years ago. He would be incredibly old by now. Bear, is...um...only eleven."

"Oh, cool. I'm almost eleven."

"You two have something in common, then," Emma chuckles. "I bet you'll be best friends." She thinks she sees the briefest flash of _something_ in Regina's eyes before the other woman quickly schools her features into a smile.

"Yes, I'm sure you will. Henry, why don't you grab some hay from over there to give him. Remember to keep your hand flat, like I told you. Like a plate."

Henry quickly obeys, offering the horse a handful of straw that Bear laps up eagerly, blowing air out of his nose in what sounds to Emma like a very happy growl. Henry giggles as the horse's tongue licks his hand. "That tickles," he exclaims.

Regina leans against Bear's neck with the most serene smile Emma has ever seen on her face and calls out, "Emma, would you like to feed him, too?"

"Uhhh...no thanks! I'll just watch."

Henry rolls his eyes at her. "Suit yourself," he mutters.

_I will_, she thinks, shrugging her shoulders. Actually, she's really enjoying watching this scene unfold. Henry is just so happy, and she's surprised at how relaxed Regina appears, especially with all her stress this morning at seeing her mother. The two of them are playing with the horse and brushing him and laughing together, and she just thinks that it looks so incredibly _right_. Like this was destined to happen, like it's fate.

Then she laughs and shakes her head because clearly she's been listening to too many of Henry's fairytales and not sleeping nearly enough.

"Good morning," says a deep, pleasant voice, and Emma looks up, startled, at the newcomer. She'd been so absorbed watching her partner and her son that she didn't hear his footsteps approach. He's an older man, pretty short, with white hair, and he has a warm smile that immediately puts her at ease.

"Daddy! Good morning!" Regina says happily, and Emma wonders if this is the same woman she sees at work every day and spent the morning with, because she couldn't possibly seem more different. She greets her father in the exact opposite way she did her mother and immediately melts into his arms.

"I'm so happy to see you, sweetheart," he murmurs, holding her tightly to his chest and stroking her hair. Regina buries her face in his shoulder for a moment before he asks, "And who are these important-looking people?"

"This is my partner, Emma, and her son, Henry," Regina explains. "They came to meet the horses. Well, Henry came to meet the horses, anyway. Emma, Henry, this is my father, Henry Martinez."

"Henry? What an excellent name, young man!" the older Henry exclaims, immediately pumping the younger Henry's hand. "You're in extremely capable hands: my Regina is a great teacher."

"We're about to start getting Bear saddled," says Regina. "If you'd like to join us."

Henry fixes his daughter with a quizzical look. "Bear, really?" She gives him the smallest of nods and he shrugs. "Should I help prepare a horse for Emma to ride?"

"Oh, no!" Emma says quickly. "Emma doesn't ride. Emma is just here to watch and make sure Henry doesn't get hurt."

"And talk about herself in the third person," Henry snarks.

"Hey, watch it, kid, or I'll take you home right now."

"No, you won't," Henry counters. "Regina drove."

Regina and the older Henry laugh as Emma shoots her son a glare. "Maybe I'll keep you company while you watch, then," Regina's father suggests. The pair stand in the corner together while Regina shows Henry how to put on Bear's saddle and harness and then fastens a helmet on his head and helps him mount up (Emma has to close her eyes for that part) before leading the horse out by the reins.

"Not a big horse lover?" he asks Emma as they follow behind at a safe distance.

"Not really, no."

"Bad experience as a child?"

"Not exactly – wasn't around horses enough to have experiences one way or the other. I just never had enough interest to outweigh the fact that the thing is big enough to crush my skull if it wanted to."

She half expects that he's going to give her a lecture about how horses are such wonderful creatures and she just has to get to know them better, but he surprises her. "Well, that's very brave of you, then, to let your child learn to ride."

Emma shifts her weight uncomfortably and mumbles, "Well, it makes him happy, and, you know, I trust Regina. I feel like she wouldn't let him get hurt. And anyway, I mean...I guess one of the things I'm learning these days is that loving my kid means letting him live his life, not keeping him in a bubble. No matter how much it sucks for me," she adds with a grimace.

Henry nods approvingly, a faraway look in his eyes. "I worry about her every day," he admits. "On the job...she already almost died once." _Right, the White case,_ Emma thinks. She sometimes forgets about that, these days – it's different now that she knows Regina, the person, rather than Detective Mills, the legend. Henry is still murmuring, "It's the worst feeling in the world, knowing there's something out there you can't protect your child from. Even when they're all grown up...but don't you worry," he suddenly says, snapping out of his reverie. "Young Henry will be perfectly safe. I know my daughter will see to that."

"Yeah, like I said, I trust her," Emma replies. "Just one question, though: you seemed really surprised about Henry riding Bear. She wasn't lying about his calm temperament, was she? He's not some psycho horse who's going to throw my kid?"

"No, no, not at all," the older man quickly reassures her. "Bear is quite calm and incredibly sweet. I trained him myself – got him when he was just a foal. It's just...well, it's not really my place to say." He turns away from her, looking slightly troubled, and watches Regina show the younger Henry how to position his legs to make the horse walk in different directions.

"Okay, you don't have to, then." Regina corrects Henry's posture for about the third time, and the boy groans. Emma stares sheepishly at her feet – she feels like that's something mothers are supposed to be stricter about, but she's never bothered.

"Mom! Stop watching!" Henry suddenly yells. "You're stressing the horse out."

"He means you're stressing _him_ out," the older Henry chuckles. "Has my daughter given you the grand tour of the grounds, yet?"

"Um...no. We-"

"Then let me. We'll give these two their space so we don't embarrass them too much." He takes in her uneasy expression and adds, "They will be perfectly safe. I promise."

Emma shrugs her assent and lets the mayor of Storybrooke lead her away by the elbow. She's still not entirely comfortable with the horse, but she supposes she can give them some space if that's going to make the experience more memorable for him. "Okay, you want to tell me something about Storybrooke?" she asks. "What goes on in this place that needs mayor-ing?"

"Well, our population is about fifteen thousand," he begins. "It was originally founded as a gemstone mining town, but that's been closed down for years. Our major industry nowadays is shipping..."

* * *

Regina watches her father and Emma disappear around the side of the stable, absentmindedly pulling the chain around her neck out from under her shirt and running her thumb back and forth along her engagement ring. She really hadn't expected Emma to leave - she had seemed so reluctant to let Henry out of her sight for even a minute - but perhaps having a bit of separation from the thing that's making her so anxious is better for her overall mental health.

She wishes she could do the same.

Actually, no, she doesn't. She's strangely happy to be here with Henry. Intermittent heart palpitations aside, this is the most fun she's had in...well, in a while, anyway.

She has Henry lead Bear around in a circle, periodically switching directions, first at a walk, then she teaches him how to bring the horse up to trotting pace. She wouldn't go so far as to say he's a natural, but he's eager to learn and seems to have developed a decent bond with the horse rather quickly.

Then again, her father had specifically selected and trained Bear to be around children learning to ride for the first time.

When she thinks he's comfortable enough with his handling skills, she suggests taking a longer ride around the perimeter of the property. Henry looks longingly at the ring of fences next to them and asks, "Can't I learn to jump?"

Regina laughs. "Not today. I don't think you're quite ready yet; not to mention, your mother would probably kill me."

"Nah, she wouldn't kill you," he disagrees. "She likes you." And there's that damned tingling again. But he grudgingly agrees to her plan.

"Should we stop by the barn and get another horse for you to ride?"

Regina shakes her head. "No, I'll just walk or jog alongside in case I need to help you out."

"I can keep the horse under control," Henry protests. "I don't need any help."

"Of course you can. It's just...I didn't have time for my morning run today," she lies. "I need the exercise." Actually, she had gone close to twenty miles and her legs currently feel like jelly, but she doesn't think it would greatly inspire his confidence if she admitted she hasn't been on a horse for close to eleven years now.

He's a great conversationalist, Regina discovers as they make their way through the orchard, and shockingly intelligent and mature for his age. She thinks it must be the writer in him, always thinking deeply about connections and trying to make sense of other people's experiences.

"So, what was it like to grow up in Storybrooke?" he asks. "It's really small."

"It was fine," she says smoothly. "It's a nice place to be child, anyway. I always had my horses and a lot of space to play outside and explore. But, you're right. It's very small."

"I've always lived in cities," Henry says, "first Boston and now New York, but I think it would be fun to live in a small town. It seems like everyone knows each other."

"Yes, well, that can be both a blessing and a curse. Although, I suppose not knowing anyone can be the same."

"New York just has so many people, it's hard to get to know anyone. I mean, I have friends at school, but sometimes you can just get lost in the crowd. It can get a little...I don't know..."

"Lonely?" Regina guesses.

Henry sighs. "Yeah, lonely."

"Small towns can get lonely, too," Regina points out. "Knowing everyone doesn't necessarily mean you like them, and if you don't, you can't get away from them very easily."

"I guess," he agrees. "And, anyway, I doubt my parents would ever want to live in a place like this, especially my mom. Being a cop here would probably be really boring. Do they even have a police department?"

"They do, actually. It consists of one sheriff. My father tried to convince me to take the job a few years ago, but I declined. As you said, it would be horribly boring. A lot of sitting around and eating donuts and rescuing the occasional cat from a tree."

"I bet that would be lonely, too," Henry guesses. "I mean, working by yourself all day."

"You're probably right, although it's probably better in some ways than working with coworkers whom you dislike."

"Do you have a lot of those?" he asks with a smirk.

"No, of course not," Regina lies awkwardly, and Henry's grin deepens. "Not...not your mother anyway. I just think that sometimes...sometimes it's not just the amount of social interaction in our lives that determines whether we're lonely or not. Sometimes even one person can be enough. It's...it's when you don't have someone...you don't have anyone - I think that's when it starts to get you."

She looks down at her feet, hoping he'll take what she just said as a general statement of wisdom rather than a depressing analysis of her own life. She's not sure what it is about this boy that had made her open herself up to him like that, but she realizes right away that she shouldn't have. He's ten; he shouldn't have to know about things like loss and loneliness.

The fact that many ten year olds know plenty about it is one that she's intimately familiar with, but one she'd really prefer not to acknowledge.

Henry rides in silence for a moment, looking contemplative. Finally he says, "Hey, Regina?"

"Yes?"

"I'm really glad my mom has you. I think she was really lonely before, especially after I moved, but now she's not. I'm glad you're her someone."

Is she laughing or choking? She's not sure. "Oh, Henry, I don't know about that. But, if she's feeling less lonely, then...I'm glad, too."

They're out at the edge of the orchard, now, and Regina checks her watch. It's getting awfully close to the time her mother typically likes to eat lunch, and they're going to have to hurry if she wants to teach him how to groom the horse before she turns into a mess of Cora Mills-induced anxiety.

"Are you ready to try a little faster speed?" she asks.

"Definitely!" Henry says enthusiastically. "But what about you? Can you run as fast as a horse?"

No, she can't, but is there really another option. She feels her chest start to tighten at the thought of-

"Do you want to ride with me? That's...that won't hurt him, right? Carrying two people?"

"It...no, it won't. Not for such a short distance." Henry's tiny, and Bear could probably use the exercise. He certainly doesn't get ridden as often as he's supposed to. She considers for a split second before swinging herself up onto the saddle behind the boy and squeezing her eyes shut, counting to ten to steady her breathing. This isn't so bad; it may have been a while, and she's always preferred riding without a saddle, but this feels natural. She keeps one hand on the reins and wraps her other arm firmly around Henry's middle. "Okay, we're going to squeeze our legs together and give a little kick to get him to start. Lightly at first - you don't want to deal with a charging horse if he gets too excited," she coaches. "If this is too fast for you..."

"It won't be," Henry says confidently.

"Well, just let me know if you start to get nervous, and we'll slow down."

She urges Bear to pick up the pace. It's not his full speed, of course, but Henry doesn't have to know that. It's faster than she would have allowed him to ride on his own, at least, and definitely faster than Emma would probably like, but for the first time all day, she feels like she's got everything under control. She hears the gleeful giggle that escapes from Henry over the pounding of the horse's hooves, and she feels her own face break out into a grin as her hair blows back in the wind. She's missed this.

How the hell has she gone ten years without allowing herself to feel this kind of joy?

They're back at the stable far too soon - Regina forces Henry to gradually slow Bear to a walk before they get anywhere his mother could possibly see them. "We don't want to give her a heart attack," she explains.

"Yeah, that would kind of ruin all the fun," Henry reluctantly agrees. He turns up to her and flashes her a smile so sweet it almost makes her cry. "This will just be our little secret, then?"

"Right: our secret." She shouldn't be having any secrets with her partner's son, probably, but this one feels more fun than harmful. And he's beaming and leaning back so comfortably against her, and she doesn't even remember the last time she felt this light and happy.

In front of the stable, she helps him dismount and secures Bear to a fence post before procuring a bucket, some sponges, and a brush. Henry happily skips beside her, linking their arms at the elbows.

"You two have a good ride?" Emma asks. She's still hanging far back from the horse, but she looks much less apprehensive than before. Beside the blonde, Regina's father is staring at her with a mix of shock and pride that makes her extremely uncomfortable. She nods, eyes averted, while Henry starts bouncing toward his mom and raves about how much fun he had.

The elder Henry follows Regina around back to the hose where she's starting to fill the bucket with water. "You rode with him," he observes.

"Yes, well, the horse was faster than me, and I didn't think Emma would have appreciated my allowing him to ride off on his own," Regina mutters. Her father ignores her.

"You've refused to get on a horse for over ten years. What made today different?"

"I don't know, Daddy, okay? Will you just drop it?" Regina snaps.

"Darling, I know you don't like to talk about it, but this is a really huge step, and I just wanted to acknowledge that. I'm so proud of you, Regina."

"Thank you," she says stiffly, trying her best to sound appreciative. She is, truly; her father has been nothing but supportive through this entire ongoing ordeal. He's read every book, gone to her therapy, held her through the hard moments and celebrated her progress. The problem, of course, is that he'll be so proud he'll tell her mother, and Mother does not celebrate progress. Mother only pushes for more and doesn't understand why that seems to backfire, _every single time_.

"Would you like to help with grooming?" she offers.

"I'd be honored." He helps her pick up the now-full bucket - _he's really getting too old to be doing heavy lifting like that_, Regina thinks uneasily - and follows her back to Emma and Henry, shining eyes never leaving her face for a second.

* * *

"Our tourism rates have been down over the past few years, probably due to the economy, but Storybrooke has some unique attractions," her father is explaining. "It's a real hidden gem." He laughs at his own little quip. "Because it used to have a gemstone mine." Emma and Henry both force laughs while Regina and Cora roll their eyes affectionately.

"We moved here when Regina was a baby, and it hasn't changed much since then," Cora adds with a slight grimace. "But Henry believes in setting down roots."

Overall, Regina muses as she takes a bite of her salad, this luncheon could be far worse. It's a little awkward, a little stilted, but mostly quite pleasant. Her father seems thrilled to brag about his town, and her mother has been largely silent except for the few times she's needed to explain to the younger Henry (and most likely his mother, too – not that she'd ever admit it) what exactly is on his plate. Perhaps she should bring people every time she visits.

Emma and Henry, for their part, seem to be getting along reasonably well with Regina's parents. Emma is listening intently – or at least pretending – to the history lecture about Storybrooke's mining days, and Henry's dreamy smile hasn't left his face since they returned from the stable. He's probably thinking about horses, Regina assumes. She knows that smile well – she spent much of her childhood wearing one just like it.

"Henry!" Cora says abruptly.

Both Henrys look up at once, and Emma chuckles.

"I meant...Little Henry, dear," Cora tells her husband.

"Does that make me Big Henry, then?"

"I'm not little!" Little Henry protests.

Big Henry feigns offense and adds, "And I may be a bit out of shape, but I'd prefer not to be called 'big.'"

Cora rolls her eyes. "Anyway, I was going to ask how old you were."

"Ten...and a half," he adds, puffing his chest out to appear bigger.

"How nice. That puts you in...fourth grade? Fifth?"

"Fourth. I just missed the cut-off in Massachusetts," he grumbles. "I would have made it in New York, but I didn't live there when I started school."

"You live in New York?" Cora asks, one eyebrow raised. Out of the corner of her eye, Regina thinks she sees Emma's face fall. "I thought-"

"It's really not that complicated if you put your mind to it," Regina mutters under her breath, mentally willing her mother to stop talking. But then, Cora has never been great at reading anyone's thoughts, least of all her daughter's.

"Yeah, with my dad. My mom lives in Boston."

"Oh, so your parents aren't together, then?"

Regina wonders how hard she can squeeze her water glass before it shatters. Henry seems completely unfazed, though. "No, because it turns out my mom is gay." He suddenly flinches – Emma must have kicked him under the table. "What? It's nothing to be ashamed of! That's what you and Dad always say."

"Yes," Emma hisses, "but not being ashamed and sharing it with a bunch of people we don't even know are two different things!"

"Oh, yes, of course. That makes sense, then," Big Henry says quickly, seeming to realize they've steered into potentially uncomfortable territory. "How nice that you're so accepting and well-adjusted."

Little Henry shoots Emma an "I told you so" look and replies, "Yeah, I don't really care who my parents date as long as they're nice and give me the occasional bribe. Bonus points if they'll buy me a puppy."

"Smartass," mutters Emma.

"Regina, dear, maybe that's something you should try," Cora suggests, flashing her daughter a bright smile that looks vaguely wolfish.

_I spoke too soon about today being okay,_ Regina thinks desperately. Whatever comes out of her mother's mouth next, it's almost guaranteed to _not_ be okay. She wonders if she can just grab Emma and Henry and flee the room before it happens.

"Try what, Mother?" she asks apprehensively. "Being gay? Buying a puppy?"

"Dating someone who already has a child! It's the perfect way to get what you've always wanted without having to deal with any of the legal or financial hurdles that come with adoption. There's still time to try again."

Big Henry inhales sharply. "Cora, this is-"

"Or perhaps just dating in general. Men, women, those progressive people who make their own pronouns – I don't care. You need to stop wallowing and move on with your life. It's been ten years since Daniel-"

Regina doesn't hear what comes next; she _can't_ hear what comes next. Her ears are ringing and her eyes are swimming and all she can see is a vague red haze as she abruptly stands and bolts. She thinks she hears a crash behind her as her chair hits the floor, but she doesn't turn back, taking the stairs two at a time until she's finally up in the safety of her childhood room. She manages to wait until the door has slammed shut before she collapses to the floor and lets the tears fall.

* * *

_What the hell was that?_ Emma wonders, sharing a confused look with Henry as Regina's parents begin arguing back and forth over their heads. She reviews the last five minutes in her head; they had just been having a normal conversation, hadn't they? Until, suddenly, they weren't.

"Cora, you know not to push her like that," Henry says with a tired groan.

Cora shrugs defensively. "You said she got on a horse today. I thought that since she's doing so well, she might be a bit more open to the idea."

"Riding a horse isn't synonymous with dating again. Remember what the doctor said about letting her control her own progress."

"It has been ten years!" Cora protests. "It's time for her to move on."

"It's not that simple! She'll move on when she's ready."

"And when will that be? On her death bed? She's forty-three years old, Henry! She's not your baby anymore, and you need to stop treating her like one, or she'll never learn to face reality."

"She'll always be my baby, and she's already faced more reality than anyone should ever have to."

Emma clears her throat. This conversation is starting to go down a path that might be inappropriate for a ten year old. "Henry, why don't you go read in the living room or something," she suggests. "I'll...um...find Regina?"

Cora and the older Henry turn to her, startled, like they've just remembered that they have guests.

"Of course, good idea," Cora says smoothly, quickly standing and adjusting her blouse. "She's probably in the room right at the top of the stairs."

"Young man," the older Henry says, "did I hear you like puppies?" Little Henry nods. "Our neighbor's dog just had a litter. Would you like to go see them?"

"Mom, can I?" he asks eagerly.

"Sure, of course. I'll just...just yell when you're back and we'll figure out our plan for the rest of the day?"

Emma sighs as the Henrys walk out the door – Cora in tow – and wishes she could follow. But Regina had gone after her when she'd run out of the room crying; now it's time for her to return the favor.

She finds Regina's room exactly where Cora had said it would be. The door is shut, and she takes a deep breath before knocking, concerned about what she'll find on the other side. Will her partner be an inconsolable mess? In full-on Evil Queen mode?

She supposes she'll soon find out.

"It's not locked," comes from inside the room, so quietly she almost doesn't hear it. She slowly pushes the door open and looks around. She hasn't had a whole lot of time to spend picturing Regina Mills's childhood bedroom, but there's basically nothing in here that surprises her. Actually, there's basically nothing in here. Just a bed and a lot of boxes, floral wallpaper that screams "eighties" and "picked out by mother." What little decoration remains mostly consists of pictures of horses and one blue Wellesley pennant. Regina is sitting on her bed, back against the wall and knees hugged tightly to her chest. She's sniffling and her cheeks are stained with tears, Emma observes, but she's not actively crying.

"Hey," Emma says softly.

"Hey." Regina's reply is rough, voice strained from holding back tears.

"So, your mother is...um...well, she's a piece of work," Emma stammers.

"Yes, I'm aware." Regina takes one, two, then three slow, deep breaths in and out. "I'm sorry if she made you uncomfortable."

"I'm...yeah, no. I'm totally fine. I was more concerned about you."

"I'm fine," Regina says through gritted teeth. "I was simply caught off-guard. My reaction was weak and childish. There's no need to worry. I'll be downstairs in just a moment."

"It can be a sensitive topic," Emma says reassuringly. Regina gives her a quizzical look, clearly confused. "I mean, having kids or whatever. Infertility, stuff like that. It's a totally normal reaction." From the expression on her partner's face, she assumes she got something completely wrong.

Regina toys with the ring hanging around her neck and sighs. "I wasn't _infertile_," she mutters. Then, more loudly, "I need some air."

Emma watches, baffled, as Regina forces open one of the windows and starts to climb out. "You can join me, if you like," she offers woodenly. "There's a nice view. Unless...Henry..."

"Gone to see the neighbor's new puppies with your parents, probably having a grand old time. Unless...do you want to be alone?"

Regina thinks for a moment before biting her lower lip and shaking her head. "No, I...I don't want to be alone," she says in a barely audible whisper.

"Okay." Emma follows her partner out onto a flat part of the roof and whistles as she looks over the Mills estate in its entirety. Regina hadn't been kidding about the incredible view. She sees Henry walking down the driveway with Cora and Big Henry, bouncing excitedly and probably going on and on about puppies.

Emma wordlessly watches as the other woman sits down and starts worrying one of the roofing tiles with her fingertips, wondering what exactly her role in all of this is supposed to be. After a few awkward moments, Regina finally breaks the silence.

"Sit," she commands.

Emma sits.

Another full minute passes before Regina says, "The presentation that they give at the Academy...the White case...it isn't true."

Emma wrinkles her nose, now completely befuddled. Aside from being surprising, that was not at all what she had been expecting to hear about. "It's not?"

"It is, but it's not...it's not the whole truth."

Now intrigued, Emma sits stock still and waits for her partner to continue.

"About twelve...no, maybe almost thirteen years ago, I was asked to start investigating a cold case: the disappearance of a woman – Belle French," Regina says slowly, pausing frequently as though she can't talk and breathe at the same time. "Leopold White" – she cringes as she utters his name – "was a suspect in her disappearance, along with the murders of several other women, but we didn't have enough evidence to charge him. It was all circumstantial, inadmissible..."

So far, this is all fairly familiar to Emma, but it feels different, coming from the source.

"I was undercover, posing as...well, eventually, as his girlfriend," she explains with great disgust.

"But then he found out you were a cop, and you got pulled off the case," Emma recalls.

Regina shakes her head. "No," she croaks. "That isn't...well, yes, eventually he did discover that. But that's not...the reason I was pulled from the case was...was that I..." She squeezes her eyes shut and digs her fingernails into the palm of her hand so hard that Emma's afraid she's going to draw blood. "I was pregnant," she finally bursts out.

Emma feels her jaw drop and her eyes bulge so hard they feel like they're about to pop out of her skull. That was certainly _not_ mentioned in the presentation.

_Holy shit._ She was – was it...? Well, it's not like that matters now. Whatever happened – whatever reason she doesn't have a child here right now – Emma can guess and, oh, it makes her sick – she's clearly devastated.

"I...I asked them not to...it was private." Regina clears her throat. "The rest," she continues in a monotone, "is as I assume you learned it. White discovered my identity, tracked me down, and attacked me in my home." Her voice is completely hollow, but her eyes betray layers of hurt. "I was able to subdue him after a struggle, but my fiancé didn't...didn't survive his injuries," – she lets out a tiny, heartbreaking sob - "and my unborn child didn't survive mine."

"Oh." Emma's lips part as her jaw hangs slack, exhaling the syllable in an abrupt, painful puff of air.

Regina nods and turns away. "Anyway," she finishes after taking a moment to recompose herself, staring off into the distance while her fingers rip the tile pretty much to shreds, "I should, in theory, have a son about Henry's age, and my mother enjoys bringing that up from time to time to remind me of my weaknesses and failures."

"How are the actions of a deranged serial killer _your_ failures?" Emma demands.

"Her issue is more with the fact that I haven't yet 'moved on,'" Regina explains, a hard edge of bitterness and anger in her voice that Emma hasn't heard before, even in her sharpest remarks to Locksley or Blanchard. "A new lover, a new child – just forget everything and make a new life." She laughs harshly. "As if it's that simple."

"I'm sorry," Emma murmurs, overwhelmed by sadness and anger. She feels tears of her own stinging her eyes and has strain to keep them in.

"I do not require your pity. My weakness is mine, and mine alone to handle. And I'll thank you not to share this information with Jones or Nolan or any of your other little friends," she adds with an icy glare. "Locksley and ADA Blanchard already know, but I'd prefer you not discuss it with them, either."

_Why the hell does Blanchard know?_ Emma wonders. Locksley, she remembers, had worked on the case, but...

She quickly abandons the thought. It's unimportant. "Of course not," she immediately promises. "I would never." She scoots a little closer to Regina and rests her hand on top of the one that's now picking the tile clean off the roof. "Thank you," she says quietly, "for trusting me."

Regina turns back around then, angry mask gone and her shining eyes staring deeply into Emma's. "Thank you for listening," she husks.

"Any time, partner." Emma offers a reassuring smile and takes the chance of putting an arm around Regina's shoulders. The brunette tenses slightly, but she doesn't fight it.

"My mother..." Regina mutters, "maybe she's right. It's been ten years, but I'm still...I can't..."

"There's no law that says you have to."

"I really have been...I've made progress. I have everything under control – they wouldn't have allowed me back on the force if I didn't, so you don't have to worry about that. But my parents..."

"Sometimes people bring out parts of us that we'd rather just forget about," Emma says sympathetically. "I turn into an angry teenager again whenever I'm around Henry's dad for too long."

That earns a short bark of laughter before Regina immediately straightens her shoulders and schools her features into a serious expression. "I don't want you to think I'm not capable of watching your back on the job," she informs Emma. "I'm not...I'm not broken. I'm not a victim. This doesn't affect my work."

"Of course not," Emma immediately exclaims. "I trust you."

"Are you sure? If...if you want a new partner after this, I'd...I'd understand."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Emma shakes her head in disbelief. "Working with you has been my dream since I first decided to become a cop! If you think this changes anything, well, it doesn't. I have so much respect for you and this...if anything, it makes me admire you more." Her partner rolls her eyes at the final comment, but Emma continues staring her down, unflinching, willing her to believe.

"So, we're good?" Regina asks guardedly.

"We're good," Emma confirms. "As long as your mother doesn't show up at any crime scenes, I guess," she adds.

Regina's lips curl into the tiniest of smirks. "We should probably get back downstairs. I'll apologize for my outburst, and then, I guess...we'll start the drive home. Unless Henry wants to spend more time with the horses."

Emma shrugs. "Totally up to you. It's your house, your car. We'll just follow your lead."

Almost as if on cue, Little Henry's voice comes up the stairs, "Mom! Regina! We're back from seeing the puppies!"

Regina quickly rises, dusting a bit of dirt off her pants before climbing back in through the window. "We're on our way!" she calls. Emma groans and pushes herself to her feet as Henry's words from this morning come back to her. _Maybe you'll learn something about her today._ Well, he was certainly right about that, but what she's just learned doesn't really help much with gift ideas.

* * *

One more brief trip to the stables, awkward goodbyes with Big Henry and Cora, and they're in the car on their way back to Boston. The trip is largely silent. Henry is scribbling away in his notebook about something he refuses to share – probably notes for the knight-on-horseback scenes of his fairytale. He takes detail very seriously.

Emma spends much of the drive stealing glances at Regina out of the corner of her eye, and Regina, for her part, carefully avoids her partner's gaze. Emma hadn't been lying on the rooftop – she still trusts Regina over anyone else – but she'd be lying if she said that what she'd just learned hadn't made her view the other woman a little differently. Not necessarily in a bad way, just...differently.

She remembers her instructors at the Academy briefly mentioning an officer who had been killed by White during the investigation – she wonders if that was Regina's fiancé. She can't recall what his name was; they were always very vague about his involvement in the case. She supposes that they were trying to protect Regina's privacy, which was decent of them, perhaps. It's the least they can do, after their complete and utter failure to protect her safety.

Regina interrupts her progressively angrier and angrier thoughts with a quiet remark, "I think Henry's sleeping."

Emma turns to the backseat to see her son completely passed out, notebook forgotten on his lap and mouth wide open as he lets out a cute little snore.

"I'll pay to clean your car if he drools on the seats," she promises.

"That won't be necessary." Regina adjusts the rearview mirror and watches him sleep for a minute. "I guess the riding tired him out."

"Yeah, he was way too excited to sleep last night, too," Emma says with a grin. "I'm guessing he'll be out until we get home, and then he'll wake up and demand massive quantities of food."

"I'm guessing our unfinished lunch wasn't quite the typical fare of a prepubescent boy?" Regina suggests, smiling wryly.

"Nah, he liked it. Kid's just a bottomless pit. I keep thinking he's eventually going to start a growth spurt, or, like, become obese, but he eats everything in sight and stays the same size. His dad actually got him tested for a tapeworm, but he's parasite free – just an absurdly fast metabolism."

"Do you have any plans for the rest of the weekend?" Regina asks.

"Not sure. I've gotta talk to his dad about when he wants to head back to New York. I don't know how much help his foster sister needs or what exactly is going on."

"I see. Is that...do people typically maintain close bonds with former foster siblings?"

Emma shakes her head. "Depends on the person and the circumstances, I guess. I haven't really stayed in touch with any of mine. Neal and Wendy lived together for a long time, though, with a pretty good family, so they had more of a chance to get close."

"Oh."

"Anyway," Emma adds quickly, "Neal's a lot better than I am at maintaining social bonds and stuff like that. I'm basically a loner."

"I have trouble believing that. You have – you get along well with everyone. Jones, ADA Blanchard..."

"Yeah, but I'm not particularly close to them," Emma disagrees. "I mean, besides Neal, who I kind of _had_ to stay in contact with" – she jerks her head toward the sleeping boy in the backseat – "the person who knows the most about me is probably...you."

"Oh."

It's amazing, Emma thinks, how much Regina can say with just one word. Even with just a single syllable, her voice and expression convey shock, sadness...maybe she even seems touched by the sentiment.

The rest of the drive is completed without further conversation. Henry, as predicted, awakes as soon as the car stops in front of Emma's apartment, and declares that his stomach is growling.

Emma hands him the key, and he races upstairs to find some snacks. Meanwhile, Regina switches off the engine and comes out to stand next to Emma on the sidewalk.

"Thank you so much, Regina," she says sincerely. "For today, for everything. You pretty much made Henry's whole life. He probably won't talk about anything else for weeks."

"It was my pleasure," Regina insists. "Henry is wonderful, and...thank _you_ for allowing me to get to know him." She gently grabs Emma's hand and adds, "I hope you both had a nice time, even though you had to be around horses, and...all of that."

"I did. I...yeah, I did." She'd like to say more, but there's nothing she can think of that will sound right. It's okay, though – Regina seems to understand.

Their faces drift closer, so close their noses are almost touching, and Regina's gaze flickers downward to Emma's lips. She can feel the brunette's warm breath on her face, and her cheeks flush as several cocoons full of butterflies hatch and take flight in her stomach.

Emma leans forward, and their lips nearly brush against each other just before Henry hollers, "Mom, how old is the hummus in the fridge?"

Regina's eyes widen, and she leaps backwards, as if she's just become aware of what was about to happen. "I...I...good night, Emma," she finally stutters. "I'll see you on Monday."

She jumps into her car and drives off before Emma can fully digest the situation enough to reply. _What the hell?_ she thinks. Her fingers drift upwards to touch her lips, which feel like they're on fire, and she wonders if the wave of nausea that's slowly taking over her innards is due to horror that she almost kissed her partner or disappointment that she didn't.


End file.
